HEART'S  KINDRED 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


For  a  moment  he  let  himself  watch  her,  and  catching  his  look,  she  smiled, 
as  she  had  smiled  when  his  eyes  had  met  hers  as  he  woke. 


HEART'S    KINDRED 


BY 

ZONA    GALE 

AUTHOR  OF 
"FRIENDSHIP  VILLAGE,"   "NEIGHBORHOOD  STORIES" 


THE    LOVES   OF    PELLEAS   AND   ETARRE 


" 


" 


CHRISTMAS,"    ETC. 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE 


ff orfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1915 

All  rights  reserved 


COPTBIGHT,   1915, 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 
Set  up  and  electrotypod.    Published  September,  1915. 


Norfaooti  19r«S 

J.  S.  Ouihing  Co.  —  Berwick  <k  Smith  Oo. 
Norwood,  MASS.,  U.S.A. 


TO 
THOSE  WHO  OBEY 

THE 

SIXTH  COMMANDMENT 


M18C 


HEART'S  KINDRED 


A  HUT  of  bark,  thatched  with  palm-leaves; 
a  gigantic  rock  at  whose  base  lay  old  ashes; 
an  open  grassy  space  bordering  a  narrow 
mountain  stream,  and  a  little  garden  — 
these  made  the  home  of  the  Inger,  where  a 
man  might  live  and  die  as  a  man  was  meant, 
neither  planning  like  a  maniac  nor  yet  idling 
like  an  idiot,  but  well  content  with  what  the 
day  brought  forth. 

Toward  a  June  sunset,  the  Inger  sat  out 
side  his  doorway,  fashioning  a  bowl  from 
half  a  turtle  shell.  Before  him  the  ground 
sloped  down  to  the  edge  of  the  garden,  and 
beyond  dropped  to  the  clearing's  edge.  When 
he  lifted  his  eyes,  he  could  look  for  miles 
along  thick  tops  of  live  oaks  and  larches,  and 


2  HEART'S  KINDRED 

beyond  to  a  white  line  of  western  sea.  At 
his  back  rcfee  the  foothills,  cleft  by  canons 
still  quite  freshly  green.  Above  them,  the 
monstrous  mountains  swept  the  sky,  and 
here  their  flanks  were  shaggy  with  great 
pines.  The  whole  lay  now  in  that  glory  of 
clear  yellow  by  which  the  West  gives  to  the 
evenings  some  hint  of  a  desert  ancestry. 

The  Inger  worked  in  silence.  He  was 
not  a  man  to  sing  or  whistle  —  those  who 
live  alone  are  seldom  whistling  men.  Per 
haps  the  silence  becomes  something  definite, 
and  not  lightly  to  be  shattered.  A  man 
camping  alone  will  work  away  quietly  day 
long  —  and  his  dog  understands.  The  Inger 
had  no  dog  any  more.  He  had  owned  a 
wolf  hound  whom,  in  a  fit  of  passion,  fce 
had  kicked  so  that  the  dog  had  died.  And 
such  was  his  remorse  that  he  would  own  no 
other,  and  the  sight  of  another  man's  dog 
pulled  at  him  as  at  an  old  wound. 

It  was  so  still  that,  presently,  in  that  clear 
air  the  sound  of  a  bell  in  the  valley  came  up 


HEART'S  KINDRED  3 

to  him  with  distinctness.  He  looked  to  the 
south,  and  in  a  deep  place  in  the  trees,  al 
ready  lights  twinkled  out  as  if  they,  like  the 
bells,  would  announce  something.  The  Inger 
remembered  and  understood. 

"Hell,"  he  said  aloud.  "The  wedding." 
He  went  on  scraping  at  his  turtle  shell, 
his  mind  on  the  man  who  would  be  married 
that  night  —  early,  so  that  there  would  be 
ample  time  for  much  merrymaking  and 
drunkenness  before  the  east  bound  train  at 
midnight.  Bunchy  Haight  was  the  man, 
the  owner  of  the  run-down  inn  in  the  village 
of  Inch.  The  woman  was  the  Moor  girl, 
whose  father,  abetted  by  the  Inger  himself, 
had  killed  a  sheriff  or  two  for  interfering 
wifh  his  gambling  place  and  had  gone  free, 
because  no  one  was  sure  whether  it  was  he 
or  the  Inger  who  did  the  shooting.  Moor's 
promissory  notes  had  been  accumulating  in 
the  hands  of  Bunchy  Haight  for  a  dozen 
years,  and  it  was  no  secret  that  the  wedding 
settled  the  long  score. 


4  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"And  in  dead  luck  to  get  a  good  provider 
like  Bunchy,  the  Moor  girl  is,"  was  the  way 
Inch  took  it. 

Inch  welcomed  a  wedding.  In  the  old 
days  it  had  been  different,  and  nobody  cared 
whether  anybody  had  a  wedding  or  not. 
For  then  there  had  been  a  race  track  at 
Inch,  and  a  summer  hotel,  and  a  fine  glass- 
front  showing  of  saloons,  and  other  magnifi 
cence.  With  the  passing  of  the  California 
law,  the  track  had  been  closed,  the  resort 
keepers  had  moved  away,  and  the  bottom 
had  fallen  from  Inch. 

Mothers  amused  their  children  by  telling 
of  the  traps  and  the  four-in-hands  and  the 
tally-ho's  with  rollicking  horns,  and  the 
gaily  dressed  strangers  who  used  to  throng 
the  town  for  a  fortnight  in  Spring  and  in 
Autumn,  when  Inch  knew  no  night  and  no 
darkness  and  no  silence,  and  abundantly 
prospered. 

Now  all  this  was  changed.  There  were, 
literally,  no  excitements  save  shootings  and 


HEART'S  KINDRED  5 

weddings.  Jem  Moor,  being  supposed  to 
have  achieved  his  share  of  the  former,  was 
prepared  further  to  adorn  his  position  by 
setting  up  drinks  for  the  whole  village  and 
all  strangers,  to  celebrate  his  daughter's 
nuptial  day. 

These  things  the  Inger  turned  over  in  his 
mind  as  he  scraped  away  at  his  shell;  and 
when  the  dark  had  nearly  fallen,  he  rose, 
shook  out  from  the  shell  the  last  fragments, 
polished  it  with  his  elbow,  balanced  it  be 
tween  his  hands  to  regard  it,  and  came  to 
his  conclusion : 

"Hell,"  he  said  again,  "I'm  bust  if  I 
don't  go  to  it." 

The  next  instant  he  laid  down  the  shell, 
slipped  to  his  door  and  caught  up  the  gun 
that  lay  inside,  on  a  shelf  of  the  rude 
scantling.  A  wood  duck  had  appeared  over 
the  lower  tree  tops,  flying  languidly  to  its 
nest,  somewhere  in  the  foothills.  Long  be 
fore  it  reached  the  wood's  edge,  the  Inger 
was  in  his  doorway.  The  bird's  heavy 


6  HEART'S  KINDRED 

flight  led  straight  across  the  clearing.  One 
moment  the  big  body  came  sailing  above 
the  hut,  then  it  seemed  to  go  out  in  a 
dozen  ugly  angles  and  dropped  like  a  stone 
to  the  edge  of  the  garden.  It  lay  flutter 
ing  strongly  when  the  Inger  reached  it. 
He  lifted  and  examined  it  approvingly. 
One  wing  was  shot  almost  clear  of  the  body. 
That  was  the  mark  he  liked  to  make.  He 
swung  the  bird  under  his  arm,  took  out  his 
jack-knife,  pried  open  the  mouth,  slit  the 
long  tongue,  tied  the  feet  together  and  hung 
it  outside  his  door  to  bleed  to  death.  This 
death,  he  had  heard,  improved  the  flavor. 

Without  washing  his  hands,  he  prepared 
his  supper  —  salt  pork  and  bacon  fried  to 
gether,  corn  cakes  soaked  in  the  gravy,  and 
coffee.  The  fire  glowed  in  the  hollow  of 
the  great  rock,  and  the  smell  of  the  cooking 
crept  about.  The  Inger  was  almost  ready 
to  eat  by  the  clear  light  of  the  transparent 
sky,  when  he  saw  a  figure  coming  across 
the  clearing. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  7 

He  leapt  for  his  rifle  —  since  the  last 
sheriff  had  been  shot  he  was  never  perfectly 
at  ease  with  any  stranger.  But  before  his 
hand  had  closed,  it  relaxed  at  the  sound  of 
a  triple  whistle.  He  wheeled  and  looked 
again.  The  stranger  had  almost  reached 
the  bourne  of  the  firelight. 

"Blast  my  bones  and  blast  me!"  cried  the 
Inger.  "Dad!" 

Something  deep  and  big  had  come  in  his 
voice.  As  the  two  men  met  and  shook 
hands,  there  was  a  gladness  in  them  both. 
They  moved  apart  in  a  minute,  the  Inger 
took  the  pack  which  the  older  man  swung 
off,  and  went  about  cutting  more  salt  pork 
and  bacon.  His  father  found  the  wash  basin, 
and  washed,  breathing  noisily  through  the 
water  cupped  in  his  hands.  Not  much  was 
said,  but  any  one  would  have  known  that 
the  two  were  glad  of  the  moment. 

"Not  much  grub,"  said  his  father.  "I 
ain't  grub  hungry,"  and  flung  himself  on 
the  ground  before  the  camp  fire.  "I'm 


8  HEART'S  KINDRED 

dead  beat  —  and  my  bones  ache,"  he 
added. 

The  Inger  filled  his  father's  plate  and  went 
on  frying  meat.  In  the  firelight,  their  faces 
looked  alike.  The  older  man's  skin  was 
beginning  to  draw  tightly,  showing  the  rug 
ged  modelling  of  the  thick  bones.  His  huge 
hands  looked  loose  and  ineffectual.  Some 
thing  welled  up  and  flooded  the  Inger  when 
he  saw  his  father's  hand  tremble  as  it  lifted 
his  tin  cup. 

Larger  in  scale,  more  definite  in  drawing, 
and  triumphantly  younger  the  Inger  was, 
brown  skinned,  level  eyed,  and  deep  chested, 
his  naked,  veined  right  arm  grasping  the 
handle  of  the  skillet  as  if  it  were  a  batter 
ing  ram.  When  the  Inger  registered  in  the 
inn  at  Inch  or  signed  a  check  in  his  bank  in 
the  City,  his  pen  bit  through  the  paper  like 
acid,  because  he  did  everything  as  if  his  tool 
were  a  battering  ram.  But  his  eyes,  as  they 
rested  now  on  his  father's  hand  that  trem 
bled,  were  soft  and  mute,  like  a  dog's  eyes. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  9 

"What  kind  of  luck,  Dad?"  he  said. 

The  older  man  looked  across  his  wooden 
platter  and  smiled  whimsically. 

"Same  kind,"  he  answered.  "None.  But 
look  a-here,  Sonny — "  he  added,  "I  found 
out  something." 

"I  bet  you  did,"  said  the  Inger. 

"I  ain't  ever  going  to  have  any  luck," 
said  the  old  man.  "I'm  done  for.  I'm  done. 
A  year  or  two  more  and  I'll  be  spaded  in. 
It's  the  darndest,  funniest  feeling,"  he  said 
musingly,  "to  get  on  to  it  that  you're  all  in 
—  a  back  number  —  got  to  quit  plannin5  it." 

"Not  on  your  life — "  the  Inger  began, 
but  his  father  roared  at  him. 

"Shut  up  !"  he  said  fondly.  "You  danged 
runt  you,  you  must  have  knowed  it  for  two 
years  back." 

"Knowed  nothin',"  said  the  Inger,  stoutly. 

The  older  man  put  his  plate  on  the  ground 
and  lay  down  beside  it,  his  head  on  his  hand. 

"It's  a  devil  of  a  feel,"  he  said. 

"Don't  feel  it,"  said  the  Inger. 


10  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"Cut  it,"  said  his  father,  almost  sternly. 
"I  brought  you  up  to  kill  a  man  if  you  have 
to  —  but  not  to  lie  to  him,  ain't  I  ?  Well, 
don't  you  lie  to  me  now." 

The  Inger  was  silent,  and  his  father  went  on. 

"I  was  always  so  dead  sure,"  he  said,  "that 
I  was  cut  out  to  be  rich.  When  I  was  a  kid 
in  the  tannery,  I  was  dead  sure.  When  I  hit 
the  trail  for  the  mines  I  thought  the  time  was 
right  ahead.  That  was  fifty  years  ago.  ..." 

"Quit,  Dad,"  said  the  Inger,  uncomfort 
ably.  "I've  got  it  —  what's  the  difference? 
The  Flag-pole  is  good  for  all  either  of  us  will 
ever  want." 

"I  ain't  forgot,  though,"  said  the  older 
man,  quickly,  "that  you  banked  on  the 
Flag-pole  agin'  my  advice.  If  you'd  done  as 
I  said,  you'd  been  grubbin'  yet,  same  as  me." 

"It's  all  luck,"  said  the  Inger.  "What  can 
anybody  tell?  We're  gettin'  the  stuff  — 
and  there's  a  long  sight  more'n  we  need. 
Ain't  that  enough?  What  you  want  to 
wear  yourself  out  for?" 


HEART'S  KINDRED  11 

His  father  leaned  against  the  end  of  the 
warm  rock,  and  lighted  his  pipe. 

"Did  I  say  I  wanted  to?"  he  asked.  "I 
done  it  so  long  I  can't  help  myself.  I'll  be 
schemin'  out  deals,  and  beins  let  in  on  the 
ground  floor,  and  findin'  a  sure  thing  till  I 
croak.  And  gettin'  took  in,  regular." 

He  regarded  his  son  curiously. 

"What  you  goin'  to  do  with  your  pile?" 
he  inquired. 

The  Inger  sat  clasping  his  knees,  looking 
up  at  the  height  of  Whiteface,  thick  black 
in  the  thin  darkness.  His  face  was  relaxed 
and  there  was  a  boyishness  and  a  sweetness 
in  his  grave  mouth. 

"Nothin',"  he  said,  "till  I  get  the  pull  to 
leave  here." 

"To  leave  Inch?"  said  his  father,  incred 
ulously. 

"To  leave  here,"  the  Inger  repeated,  throw 
ing  out  his  arm  to  the  wood.  "This  is  good 
enough  for  me  —  for  a  while  yet." 

"I  thought  mebbe  the  society  down  there," 


12  HEART'S  KINDRED 

said  his  father,  with  a  jerk  of  his  head  to  the 
lights  in  the  valley,  "was  givin'  you  some 
call  to  sit  by." 

The  Inger  sprang  up. 

"So  it  is,"  he  said,  "to-night.  Bunchy's 
gettin'  spliced." 

"Who's  the  antagonist?"  asked  the  other. 

"The  Moor  girl,"  said  the  Inger.  "Bunchy's 
a  fine  lot  to  draw  her,"  he  added.  "She's 
too  good  a  hand  for  him.  Want  to  go  down 
and  see  it  pulled  off?"  he  asked. 

His  father  hesitated,  looking  down  the 
valley  to  the  humble  sparkling  of  Inch. 

"I  don't  reckon  I  really  want  to  get  drunk 
to-night,"  he  said  slowly.  "I'll  save  up  till 
I  do." 

The  Inger  stretched  prodigiously,  bunch 
ing  his  great  shoulders,  lifting  his  tense  arms, 
baring  their  magnificent  muscles. 

"I  gotta,  I  guess,"  he  said.  "But,  gosh, 
how  I  hate  it." 

He  carried  the  remnants  of  the  food  into 
the  hut,  and  made  his  simple  preparation  for 


HEART'S  KINDRED  13 

festivity.  As  he  emerged  he  was  arrested 
by  a  faint  stirring  and  fluttering.  He  listened 
and  it  was  near  at  hand,  and  then  he  saw  the 
wood  duck,  writhing  at  the  end  of  the  string 
that  bound  its  legs.  Beneath  it  lay  a  little 
dark  pool. 

"No  sense  in  bleedin'  all  the  good  out  of 
ye,"  thought  the  Inger,  and  with  the  butt  of 
the  six-shooter  that  he  was  pocketing,  he 
struck  the  bird  a  friendly  blow  on  the  head 
and  stilled  it. 

The  forest  lay  in  premature  night,  save 
where  a  little  mountain  brook  caught  and 
treasured  the  dying  daylight.  It  was  in 
tensely  still.  The  Inger 's  tread  and  brush 
ing  at  the  thickets  silenced  whatever  move 
ment  of  tiny  life  had  been  stirring  before  him. 
The  trail  wound  for  half  a  mile  down  the 
incline,  in  the  never-broken  growth. 

Once  in  the  preceding  winter  when  the 
Flag-pole  mine  was  at  last  known  with  cer 
tainty  to  be  the  sensation  of  the  year,  the 


14  HEART'S  KINDRED 

Inger  had  sewed  a  neat  sum  in  the  lining  of 
his  coat  and  had  gone  to  inspect  San  Fran 
cisco.  He  had  wanted  to  see  a  library,  and 
he  saw  one,  and  stood  baffled  among  books 
of  which  he  had  never  heard,  stammering 
before  a  polite  young  woman  who  said,  "Make 
out  your  card,  please,  over  there,  and  present 
it  at  the  further  desk."  He  had  wanted  to 
see  an  art  gallery,  and  he  went  confused 
among  alien  shapes  and  nameless  figures,  and 
had  obediently  bought  a  catalogue,  of  which 
he  made  nothing.  Then  he  had  gone  to 
dinner  with  the  family  of  one  of  the  stock 
holders,  and  had  suffered  anguish  among 
slipping  rugs  and  ambiguous  silver.  The 
next  night,  the  new  collar  and  cravat  dis 
carded,  he  had  turned  up  in  one  of  his  old 
haunts  on  the  Barbary  Coast.  On  his  ex 
perience  he  made  only  one  comment : 

"They  know  too  damn  much,  and  there's 
too  damn  much  they  don't  know,"  he  said. 

But  the  woods  he  understood.  All  that 
he  had  hoped  to  feel  in  the  library  and  the 


HEART'S  KINDRED  15 

art  gallery  and  in  that  home,  he  felt  when 
the  woods  had  him.  Out  there  he  was  his 
own  man. 

As  he  went  he  shouted  out  a  roaring  music- 
hall  song.  Then  when  he  had  ceased,  as  if 
he  became  conscious  of  some  incongruity,  he 
stood  still,  perhaps  with  some  vague  idea  of 
restoring  silence.  In  a  moment,  he  heard 
something  move  in  the  tree  above  his  head  — 
an  anxious  "Cheep  —  cheep!"  in  the  leaves, 
as  if  some  soft  breast  were  beating  in  fear 
and  an  inquiring  head  were  poised,  listening. 
Instantly  he  lifted  his  revolver  and  fired,  and 
fired  again.  He  heard  nothing.  Had  any 
thing  fallen,  he  could  certainly  not  have 
come  upon  it  next  day.  It  was  the  need  to 
do  something. 

As  he  cleared  the  wood,  the  lights  of  the 
town  lay  sparkling  in  a  cup  of  the  desert. 
At  sight  of  them  there  was  something  that 
he  wanted  to  do  or  to  be.  The  vastness  of 
the  sky,  the  nearness  of  the  stars,  the  immi 
nence  of  people,  these  possessed  him.  He 


16  HEART'S  KINDRED 

caught  off  his  cap,  and  broke  into  a  run,  toss 
ing  back  his  hair  like  a  mane. 

"Damn  that  little  town  —  damn  it,  damn 
it!"  he  chanted,  like  an  invocation  to  the 
desert  and  to  the  night. 


II 

INCH  was  in  glory.  On  the  little  streets  and 
in  the  one-story  shops,  all  the  lights  were 
kindled.  Bursts  of  music,  and  screaming 
laughter,  came  from  the  saloons,  whose  doors 
stood  wide  open  to  the  street,  and  at  whose 
bars  already  men  and  women  were  congre 
gating.  In  the  Mission  Saloon,  the  largest 
of  these  hospitable  places,  an  impromptu  stage 
had  been  arranged,  and  the  seats  about  the 
tables  were  nearly  all  filled.  Here  the  Inger 
went  in  and  called  for  his  first  drink,  negli 
gently  including  everybody  present.  He  was 
greeted  boisterously  by  those  who  knew  him 
and  pointed  out  to  those  who  did  not  know 
him.  Not  one  of  them  understood  the  sources 
of  his  power,  or  what  it  signified.  He  was 
the  only  man  in  the  county  to  be  called  by 
his  last  name  and  the  definite  article.  This 
was  a  title  of  which  a  man  might  be  proud, 

c  17 


18  HEART'S  KINDRED 

conferred  upon  him  by  common  consent  of 
his  peers. 

There  was  no  formality  of  introduction. 
The  Inger  merely  scanned  the  crowd,  flash 
ing  a  smile  at  one  or  two  of  the  women  who 
nearly  pleased  him.  When  the  drinking  began, 
it  was  to  one  of  these  that  he  lifted  his  glass. 
But  when  immediately  she  came  and  sat 
beside  him,  linking  her  arm  in  his,  he  drew 
away  laughing,  and  addressed  the  crowd  at 
large. 

"What's  up?"  he  demanded.  "What's 
doin'  ? " 

"B-basket  o'  peaches,"  volunteered  one  of 
the  cow  punchers,  who  early  in  the  day  had 
begun  to  observe  the  occasion.  "B-Bunchy's 
complimumps ! " 

When  the  improvised  curtain  of  sheets 
drew  back,  revealing  ten  or  twelve  half- 
clothed  strange  women,  the  Inger  under 
stood.  This  was  Bunchy's  magnanimous 
contribution  to  the  general  jollity  of  his 
marriage  night. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  19 

"Let  me  have  an  absinthe,"  he  said  to  the 
barkeeper. 

The  man  leaned  across  the  bar  and  whis 
pered  something. 

"  No  absinthe ! "  shouted  the  Inger.  "  What 
the  hell  kind  of  a  joint  is  this  ?" 

"Leadpipe  Pete  licked  up  the  bottom  of 
the  bottle,"  growled  the  barkeeper,  pointing 
with  the  stump  of  a  thumb. 

The  Inger  looked.  Beside  him  a  big  ranch 
man,  swarthy  and  sweaty  and  hairy,  was 
just  lifting  to  his  lips  a  tall  tumbler  of  the 
absinthe.  He  leered  at  the  Inger,  closed  one 
eye,  and  began  to  drink  luxuriously.  The 
Inger  leapt  a  pace  backward;  and  in  an 
instant  a  bullet  crashed  through  the  glass, 
shattered  it,  and  the  man  stood,  dripping, 
with  the  bottom  of  the  tumbler  in  his  hand. 
The  bullet  buried  itself  in  the  tin  mirror  of 
the  bar. 

V 

"About  how  much  do  I  owe  you  for  the 
lookin'  glass?"  inquired  the  Inger,  easily, 
resting  his  elbows  on  the  bar.  "And  charge 


20  HEART'S  KINDRED 

me  up  with  Pete's  drink  he's  mussed  himself 
up  with  so  bad.  What' 11  be  the  next  one, 
Pete?" 

"Leave  Pete  name  the  damages,"  said  the 
barkeeper,  unconcernedly  wiping  up  the 
liquid. 

"You're  too  hellish  handy  with  your  tools, 
you  are,"  grumbled  Pete,  combing  the  glass 
from  his  beard.  "Make  it  brandy,  neat." 

"Brandy,  neat,  one  two,"  repeated  the 
Inger.  "  Bein'  your  absinthe  has  run  out." 

Presently  he  strolled  up  the  street  toward 
the  hotel,  where  the  evening's  interest  cen 
tred.  He  glanced  indifferently  into  the  sa 
loons,  nodded  a  greeting  when  he  wished, 
but  more  often  ignored  one.  At  a  corner  a 
beggar,  attracted  to  the  little  place  from 
some  limbo  where  news  of  the  wedding  had 
filtered,  held  out  his  cap. 

"It's  my  thirty-third  birthday  to-day, 
pal,"  he  said.  "It'll  bring  you  good  luck 
to  cough  up  somethin'  on  me,  see  if  it 
don't." 


HEART'S  KINDRED  21 

The  Inger  stopped  with  simulated  interest. 
The  man  —  a  thin,  degenerate  creature,  with 
a  wrinkled  smile  —  approached  him  hope 
fully.  Abruptly  the  Inger's  powerful  arm 
shot  out,  caught  him  below  the  waist,  lifted 
him  squirming  in  the  air,  and  laid  him  care 
fully  in  the  gutter. 

"What  you  need  is  rest,"  he  said,  with 
perfect  gentleness,  and  left  him  there. 

The  hotel  where  the  wedding  was  to  be 
celebrated  had  light  in  every  window.  Here 
Bunchy's  preparations  had  been  prodigal. 
Blankets  and  skins  lined  the  walls  and  cov 
ered  the  floor  of  the  office  where  a  fire  was 
roaring  and  the  card  tables  were  in  readiness. 
Shouting  and  imprecation,  chiefly  from  women, 
came  from  the  kitchen,  where  the  wedding 
supper  was  in  preparation.  In  the  hotel  desk 
was  Bunchy  himself,  engaged  in  somewhat  de 
layed  attention  to  his  nails.  His  hair,  still 
wet  from  its  brushing,  ran  away  from  his 
temples,  lifting  the  corners  of  his  forehead 
so  that  it  seemed  to  be  smiling.  He  had  a 


22  HEART'S  KINDRED 

large  face,  and  a  little  tight  mouth,  with 
raw -looking,  shiny  lips.  There  was  some 
thing  pathetic  in  his  careful  black  clothes 
and  his  uncomfortable  collar  and  his  plaid 
cravat. 

"How  much  would  you  sink  to  back  out?" 
was  the  Inger's  salutation. 

Bunchy  grinned  sheepishly. 

"How  much  did  it  cost  you?"  he  inquired. 

"Done  it  for  nothing,"  the  Inger  declared. 
"  I  ain't  the  charmer  you  are,  Bunchy.  Never 
was." 

The  groom  leaned  nearer  the  light,  minutely 
examining  a  black,  cracked  finger. 

"She  ain't  goin'  to  be  very  much  in  the 
way,"  said  he,  confidentially. 

"What?"  asked  the  Inger,  attentively. 

Bunchy  shook  his  head,  pursing  the  tight, 
raw  lips. 

"Not  her,"  he  said.  "She  believes  any 
thing  you  tell  her  —  the  whole  works.  There 
won't  never  be  no  kickin'  from  her  about  me 
not  loafin'  home." 


HEART'S  KINDRED  23 

"Well,"  said  the  Inger,  still  with  minute 
attention,  "what  you  gettin'  married  for, 
then?" 

"Huh?"  said  Bunchy,  an  obstinate  finger 
between  his  lips. 

"I  thought,"  explained  the  Inger,  "that 
a  fellow  got  married  for  to  have  a  home. 
Far  as  I  can  see,  though,"  he  added  with 
an  air  of  great  intellectual  candor,  "home  is 
hell." 

Bunchy  threw  back  his  head  and  looked 
at  him.  Curiously,  when  he  laughed,  his 
little  tight  mouth  revealed  no  teeth.  His 
answer  was  deliberate,  detailed,  unspeakable. 

For  a  minute  the  Inger  looked  at  him, 
quietly,  himself  wondering  at  the  surge  of 
something  hot  through  all  his  veins.  In  his 
slow  swing  round  the  end  of  the  desk  where 
Bunchy  stood,  there  was  no  hint  of  what  he 
meant  to  do.  Bunchy  did  not  even  look  up 
from  the  fat  forefinger  which  he  scrupulously 
pruned.  Nor  was  there  anything  passionate 
in  the  Inger 's  voice  when  he  spoke. 


24  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"You  ain't  got  the  time  to-night,"  he  said, 
"but  when  you  get  back  from  your  honey 
moon,  look  me  up  and  —  remember  this!" 

The  last  words  came  with  a  rush,  as  the 
Inger  lifted  his  hand,  and  with  his  open 
palm,  struck  Bunchy  full  in  the  face.  He 
struck  harder  than  he  had  intended,  and  the 
blood  spurted.  Even  as  he  caught  the  ugly 
look  of  wrath  and  amazement  in  that  face, 
the  Inger  tore  the  handkerchief  knotted 
about  his  own  neck  and  wiped  the  blood  from 
Bunchy's  chin. 

"No  call  to  splash  on  the  weddin'-finery," 
the  Inger  said,  with  compunction.  "Any 
time'll  do  to  bleed.  She's  Jem  Moor's  girl  — 
you  hound!"  he  blazed  out  again,  and  flung 
toward  the  door. 

Bunchy,  having  recovered  his  speech,  gave 
vent  to  it  long  and  variously.  All  that  he 
said  was  worse  than  the  observation  which 
had  caused  his  trouble.  In  the  doorway,  the 
Inger  halted  and  turned,  and  listened.  He 
seemed  to  be  seeing  Bunchy  for  the  first 


HEART'S  KINDRED  25 

time.  And  yet  he  had  heard  all  this  from 
the  man  scores  of  times  before,  and  for  that 
matter,  from  all  the  men  of  Inch.  But  this 
was  about  Jem  Moor's  girl. 

As  he  passed  into  the  street,  he  wondered 
at  himself.  Though  she  had  been  a  familiar 
figure  ever  since  he  had  lived  near  Inch,  he 
had  spoken  to  the  girl  no  more  than  twice: 
once  when  he  had  come  riding  into  town  from 
the  camp,  warm  with  the  knowledge,  not 
yet  quite  certainty,  that  the  Flag-pole  was 
to  pan  out,  Lory  Moor  had  crossed  his  path 
singing,  a  great  coil  of  clothes-line  over  one 
bare  arm,  the  other  hand  fastening  her  hair. 
The  Inger,  inwardly  exultant  with  life  and 
his  lot,  had  called  out  to  her  in  the  manner 
of  his  kind : 

"Hello,  sweetie!  What  you  got  for  me 
this  morning?" 

Without  lowering  her  brown  arm,  she  had 
looked  up  at  him,  and  he  had  been  startled 
by  the  sheer  ripe  loveliness  of  her.  While 
he  stared,  wholly  unprepared  for  her  sudden 


26  HEART'S  KINDRED 

movement,  a  twist  of  wrist  and  a  fling  of 
hand  had  let  out  the  length  of  rope,  and  it  fell 
in  a  neat  lasso  about  his  neck. 

"This!"  she  said  and  laughed.  He  had 
never  forgotten  her  laugh.  Once  or  twice 
afterward  he  had  ineffectually  tried  to  mock 
its  scale,  softly,  in  his  throat. 

"Done,"  cried  the  Inger,  "and  by  the 
Lord  Harry,  now  you  take  me  along  with 
you!" 

At  this  her  laughter  had  doubled,  and  realiz 
ing  that,  in  her  obvious  advantage,  his  com 
mand  was  absurd,  he  had  laughed  with  her. 
For  a  few  paces  she  had  run  before  him,  over 
the  sand  and  mesquite,  and  he  had  liked  to 
see  the  sun  falling  on  her  brown  neck  and 
thick  hair,  and  her  tight,  torn  sleeves.  And 
as  he  looked  and  looked,  suddenly  he  pricked 
at  his  horse,  thundered  down  on  her,  leaned 
sideways  in  his  saddle,  and  with  one  arm 
swept  her  up  before  him. 

She  did  not  cry  out,  but  her  laughter  was 
suddenly  silenced,  and  she  looked  in  his  face, 


HEART'S  KINDRED  27 

swiftly  and  searchingly,  as  if  to  read  it 
through.  She  disdained  to  cling  to  him,  and 
sat  erect,  but  her  body  was  in  his  arm,  and 
with  his  free  hand  he  gathered  in  the  rope 
and  held  it  bunched  on  his  mare's  neck. 
Then  they  galloped.  They  were  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  from  the  town,  and  they  took  a  great 
circle  about  it.  When  she  saw  what  he 
meant  to  do,  her  tenseness  relaxed,  and  she 
sat  at  ease,  but  still  she  did  not  speak  nor 
did  he.  The  Inger  threw  back  his  head,  and 
felt  the  ground  leave  his  horse's  hoofs,  and 
felt  the  sky  come  near.  He  swam  in  the  sun 
and  the  sands  blurred,  and  there  was  nothing 
but  the  girl  and  the  gallop  of  his  horse.  And 
then  suddenly,  as  they  bore  toward  the 
town,  he  had  been  intoxicated  to  see  her 
throw  out  her  arms,  toss  them  out  and  up, 
and  laugh  again. 

Had  not  the  appraisers  been  waiting  at  the 
hotel  for  him,  the  Inger  might  have  turned  to 
the  desert  with  her.  As  it  was,  at  the  edge 
of  the  settlement,  where  she  suddenly  and 


28  HEART'S  KINDRED 

imperiously  pointed,  he  set  her  down,  duck 
ing  from  the  loop  of  rope  and  tossing  it  to 
her  when  she  had  dismounted. 

"You  took  me  along  with  you  all  right," 
he  reminded  her. 

She  laughed  and  ran  away. 

"What  have  you  got  for  me  now?"  the 
Inger  called  after  her. 

"This!"  she  said,  and  threw  a  kiss  some 
where  in  the  air. 

There  followed  days  of  anxiety  when  the 
men  at  the  mine  doubted,  and  the  appraisers 
hung  fire,  and  pretended  to  less  than  they 
knew.  In  the  midst  of  it,  the  Inger  had 
ridden  away  to  the  desert  and  camped  for 
three  days,  and  had  returned  to  find  them 
cursing  him  out  and  making  an  estimate 
of  millions.  Riding  in  after  dark  to  send 
the  message  to  his  father,  still  grub-stak 
ing  to  the  north,  the  Inger  for  the  second 
time  had  seen  Lory  Moor.  She  was  in  the 
crowd  which  he  was  breasting,  outside  a 
motion  picture  house.  She  was  in  tawdry 


HEART'S  KINDRED  29 

pink,  with  a  flame  of  rose  in  her  hat,  and  she 
was  with  Bunchy.  His  hands  were  upon 
her  and  he  was  saying  something  in  her  ear 
from  one  corner  of  his  mouth.  She  was  not 
listening,  the  Inger  thought  as  he  passed  her. 
She  did  not  see  him,  and  for  this  he  felt 
vaguely  thankful  —  as  if  he  had  come  on 
her  in  some  shame.  A  day  or  two  after  this 
Jem  had  told  him  that  she  was  to  marry 
Bunchy. 

To  marry  Bunchy,  the  Inger  thought  as  he 
lounged  in  the  street  outside  the  Inn  on  her 
wedding  night,  was  the  worst  that  could  come 
to  her.  He  drifted  into  a  saloon  across  the 
way,  one  of  the  meaner  places,  and  on  this 
night  of  plenty  almost  unfrequented.  He 
sat  down  at  a  table  in  range  with  the  doors 
of  the  Inn,  and  drank  reflectively.  That 
day  that  he  had  had  her,  what  if  he  had 
galloped  away  with  her  to  the  foothills,  to 
the  camp,  to  the  other  side  of  somewhere? 
He  sat  thinking  of  her,  wondering  why  he  had 
not  dared  it,  playing  at  what  might  have  been. 


30  HEAET'S  KINDRED 

On  the  table  lay  a  San  Francisco  newspaper, 
three  days  old.  As  he  drank  he  glanced  at 
the  headlines.  "War  May  Last  Another 
Year,"  he  read.  "Reserves  of  Three  Nations 
to  be  Called  Out  Within  the  Month." 

The  thought  had  come  to  him  before,  since 
the  money  came.  To-night  he  turned  to  it 
in  a  kind  of  relief :  Why  not  go  there  ?  There 
was  fighting  worth  a  man's  hand.  Drunken 
Indians,  an  outlaw  or  two,  a  horse  thief  strung 
up  in  a  wink  and  all  over  —  these  were  all 
that  he  knew  of  warfare.  Was  he  to  die  with 
no  more  understanding  than  this  of  how  a 
man  might  live  and  die?  The  thing  was 
happening  now  —  the  adventure  of  the  great 
guns  and  the  many  deaths.  Yet  he,  a  man 
like  other  men,  sat  here  idle.  He  closed  his 
eyes  and  lay  with  those  men  in  the  trenches, 
or  leapt  up  to  kill  again  and  again  at  fifty 
yards,  saw  the  men  roll  in  torture,  saw  them 
red  and  grovelling  in  red.  ...  A  lust  of 
the  thing  came  on  him.  He  wanted  it,  as 
he  wanted  no  other  thing  that  his  mind  had 


HEART'S  KINDRED  31 

ever  played  with.  He  forgot  Jem  Moor's 
daughter  in  that  imaginary  desert.  He  swal 
lowed  and  tasted  and  opened  his  eyes  as  on  a 
forgotten  world.  He  pounded  the  table  for 
more  liquor. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  the  war,  you  scared, 
snivelling  Pale-liver?"  he  demanded  of  the 
shuffling  bartender. 

The  small  man's  little  red-rimmed  and  red- 
shot  eyes  lighted,  and  his  lips  drew  back  over 
black  teeth. 

"If  I  was  a  young  dog  like  you,  I'd  be  there 
stickin'  in  the  lead,  you  bet,"  he  said.  "What 
you  'fraid  of?" 

"Nothin',"  said  the  Inger,  suddenly;  "I'm 
goin'!" 

"Plough  some  of  'em  up  prime  for  me," 
begged  the  old  man.  "I  croaked  two  men 
myself  afore  I  was  your  age.  It  were  in  a 
sheriff's  raid,  though,"  he  regretfully  added. 

The  Inger  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  though  he  was  credited 
with  it,  he  himself  had  never  killed  a  man  in 


32  HEART'S  KINDRED 

his  life.  Yet  killing  was  a  man's  job,  and  over 
there  was  the  war,  and  he  had  the  means  to 
get  to  it.  There  was  need  of  more  to  kill 
—  and  to  be  killed.  And  he  had  been  hanging 
on  a  shelf  of  Whiteface  for  all  these  months ! 

He  drained  his  glass  and  went  to  the  door, 
as  if  the  need  to  do  something  at  once  were 
upon  him.  He  saw  that  the  wedding  guests 
were  filling  the  streets,  and  moving  into  the 
Inn.  All  of  Inch  was  out  there  —  the  women 
gorgeous  in  all  that  they  had,  and  even  some 
of  the  men  dressed  in  the  clothes  which  they 
wore  on  a  journey.  Already  some  were 
drunken,  and  all  were  loud  with  merriment, 
which  they  somehow  felt  was  required  of 
them,  like  eating  three  times  a  day  or  scorning 
a  stranger.  Everywhere  there  were  children, 
who  must  needs  go  where  the  grown  folk 
went  or  be  left  alone.  "Parents  Must  Keep 
Children  Off  the  Floor,"  was  posted  on  the 
walls  of  the  Inch  public  dance  halls. 

Next  to  the  office  door,  the  door  of  the  hotel 
bar  stood  open  now,  and  by  the  array  of  cut 


HEART'S  KINDRED  33 

colored  paper  hanging  from  the  chandeliers, 
he  guessed  that  the  wedding  was  to  be  solem 
nized  in  there.  This  was  natural  —  the  bar 
was  the  largest  room  in  the  house,  and  the 
most  magnificent  in  the  town  —  the  only  bar, 
in  fact,  with  a  real  mirror  at  the  back.  More 
over,  Bunchy's  barkeeper  was  a  man  of  parts, 
being  a  bass  singer  and  a  justice  of  the  peace. 
With  his  apron  laid  aside,  he  was  to  give  a 
tune  while  the  guests  assembled,  and  after 
ward  it  was  he  who  was  to  perform  the  cere 
mony.  Nobody  thought  of  expecting  the 
ceremony  to  be  held  in  Jem  Moor's  'dobe. 

It  was  Jem  Moor  himself  who,  while  the 
wedding  guests  were  still  noisily  passing  in  the 
hotel,  the  Inger  saw  coming  down  the  street. 
He  was  neatly  dressed  in  the  best  he  had,  and 
though  one  trouser  leg  had  crept  to  the  top 
of  a  boot,  and  his  red  cravat  was  under  an  ear, 
still  he  bore  signs  of  a  sometime  careful  toilet. 
He  broke  into  an  uneven  run  —  the  running 
of  a  man  whose  feet  are  old  and  sore  —  and 
disappeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  Inn  office. 


34  HEART'S  KINDRED 

The  Inger's  look  followed  him,  specula- 
lively. 

"But  one  more  drink  and  I  could  be 
over  there  makin'  more  kinds  of  hell  than 
usual,"  he  said  to  himself,  and  went  back  to 
the  bar. 

He  was  draining  his  glass  when  the  sound  of 
confused  talk  and  movement  came  to  him,  and, 
as  he  wheeled,  he  saw  that  across  the  street 
the  interior  of  the  Inn  bar  and  office  were  in 
an  uproar.  The  wedding  guests  were  rising, 
there  were  shouts  and  groans,  and  a  shrill 
scream  or  two.  Some  came  running  to  the 
street,  and  over  all  there  burst  occasional 
great  jets  of  men's  laughter. 

"S  up?"  asked  the  old  barkeeper  behind 
him. 

The  Inger  did  not  answer.  He  stood  in  the 
doorway  waiting  for  something.  He  did  not 
know  what  he  waited  for,  but  the  imminent 
thing,  whatever  it  was,  held  him  still.  A 
hope,  which  he  could  not  have  formulated, 
came  shining  slowly  toward  him,  in  him. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  35 

In  a  moment,  Jem  Moor  emerged  from  the 
office  door,  still  brokenly  running,  seeking 
to  escape  from  those  who  "crowded  with 
him,  questioning  him.  The  Inger  strolled 
from  the  doorway,  across  the  street,  took  his 
way  through  the  little  group  which  fell  back 
for  him,  and  brought  his  hand  down  on  the 
old  man's  shoulder. 

"Anything  wrong?"  he  inquired. 

Jem  Moor  looked  up  at  him.  He  was 
pinched  and  the  lines  of  his  nose  were  drawn, 
and  his  lips  were  pulling. 

"She's  skipped,"  he  said.  "I'm  in  for 
'Leven  Hundred  odd,  to  Bunchy." 

Something  in  the  Inger  leaped  out  and 
soared.  He  stood  there,  saying  what  he 
had  to  say,  conscious  all  the  time  that  as 
soon  as  might  be  he  should  be  free  to  soar 
with  it. 

"Alone?"  he  demanded. 

Jem  Moor  held  out  a  scrap  of  paper.  The 
Inger  took  it  and  read,  the  others  peering  over 
his  arms  and  shoulders. 


36  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"Dad,"  it  said,  "I  can't  go  Bunchy. 
I  know  what  this'll  do  to  you,  but  I 
can't  never  do  it  —  I  can't.  I've 
gone  for  good.  Dear  old  Dad,  don't 
you  hate  me. 

"LORY." 

The  tears  were  running  down  Jem  Moor's 
face. 

"'Leven  Hundred  odd,"  said  he,  "and  I 
ain't  a  red.  Not  a  red." 

The  Inger  threw  up  his  head. 

"Lord  Harry,"  he  cried.  "Why  didn't  I 
think  of  it  before?  Buck  up!"  he  cried, 
bringing  down  his  hand  on  Jem's  little 
shoulder.  "And  drink  up!  Come  along  in  !" 

He  led  the  way  to  the  Mission  Saloon,  and 
bade  the  man  take  orders  for  everybody. 
Then  he  went  to  the  back  of  the  place,  and 
found  for  himself  ink  and  a  pen,  and  tore  a 
leaf  from  a  handy  account  book.  When  he 
had  filled  in  the  name  of  his  bank,  he  wrote 
and  signed : 


HEART'S  KINDRED  37 

"Pay  to  Bunchy  Haight,  Twelve 
Hundred  Dollars  and  be  damned  to 
him." 

Then  he  wrote  out  a  receipt  to  Jem  Moor, 
with  a  blank  for  the  sum  and  for  Bunchy's 
signature. 

When  he  could,  he  drew  Jem  in  a  corner 
and  thrust  at  him  the  papers.  The  little 
man  stared  at  them,  with  a  peculiarly  ugly, 
square  dropping  of  his  jaw,  and  eyes  pointed 
at  top. 

"Don't  bust,"  said  the  Inger,  "and  don't 
think  it's  you.  It  ain't  you.  The  check 
isn't  drawn  to  you,  is  it  ?  I  want  to  hell-and- 
devil  Bunchy  some,  that's  all.  Shut  up  your 
mouth !"  he  added,  when  Jem  tried  gaspingly 
to  thank  him. 

Then  he  got  out  of  the  place,  where  sharp 
music  was  beginning  and  the  ten  or  twelve 
women  were  dancing  among  the  tables,  and 
went  down  the  street,  thronged  now  with  the 
disappointed  guests,  intent  on  forcing  the 


38  HEART'S  KINDRED 

ruined  evening  to  some  wild  festivity.  When 
they  called  to  him  to  join  them,  he  hardly 
heard.  He  went  straight  through  the  town 
and  shook  it  from  him  and  met  the  desert, 
and  took  his  own  trail. 

The  night  was  now  one  of  soft,  thick  black 
ness,  on  which  the  near  stars  pressed.  The 
air  had  a  sharp  chill  —  as  if  it  bore  no  es 
sence  of  its  own  but  hung  empty  of  warmth 
when  the  daylight  was  drained  from  it.  The 
stillness  was  insistent.  In  a  place  of  water, 
left  from  the  rains,  and  still  deep  enough  to 
run  in  ripples  over  the  sedge,  frogs  were  in 
chorus. 

There  was  a  sentinel  pepper  tree  on  the 
edge  of  the  town  and  here  a  mocking-bird 
sang  out,  once,  and  was  still.  These  left 
behind,  and  the  saw  and  crack  and  beat  of 
the  music  dying,  the  Inger  faced  the  dark, 
gave  himself  to  the  exultation  which  flowed 
in  him,  mounted  with  it  to  a  new  place. 

The  liquor  which  he  had  drunk  was  in  his 
veins,  and  to  this  the  part  of  him  which  under- 


HEART'S  KINDRED  39 

stood  all  the  rest  of  him  credited  his  swimming 
delight.  But  separate  from  this,  as  his 
breath  was  separate,  there  came  and  went 
like  a  pulse,  something  else  which  he  could 
not  possibly  have  defined,  born  in  him  in  the 
street,  when  he  had  heard  Jem  Moor's  bad 
news. 

He  threw  out  his  arms  and  ran,  staggering. 
What  was  there  that  he  must  do?  Here  he 
was,  ready  for  it.  What  was  there  that  he 
must  do  ?  Then  he  remembered.  The  War  ! 
He  would  have  that.  That  was  what  he  could 
do. 

He  stood  still  on  the  desert,  and  imagined 
himself  one  of  thousands  on  the  plain.  What 
if  he  were  with  them  there  in  the  darkness  ? 
What  if  the  rise  of  the  sand  were  the  edge  of  the 
opposite  trenches,  with  men  breathing  behind 
them,  waiting?  With  a  drunken  laugh,  he 
pulled  his  revolver,  and  fired  and  shouted. 
Why,  he  could  plough  his  way  through  any 
thing.  He  should  not  go  down  —  not  he ! 
But  he  should  be  fighting  like  this  in  the  field 


40  HEART'S  KINDRED 

of  civilized  men,  and  not  taking  his  adventures 
piecemeal,  in  a  back  lot  of  the  world,  with  a 
skulking  sheriff  or  two  and  Bunchy  for 
adversary.  To-morrow !  He  would  go  to 
morrow,  and  find  what  his  life  could  give  him. 

But  this  other  thing  that  was  pulsing  in 
him  .  .  .  the  girl !  What  about  her  ?  Was 
he  not  to  find  her,  was  he  not  to  have  her  ? 
He  closed  his  eyes  and  swam  in  the  thought 
of  her.  War  and  the  woman  —  suddenly 
he  was  aflame  with  them  both. 

When  he  went  into  the  wood,  he  went  sing 
ing.  He  himself  was  the  centre  of  the  night 
and  of  his  universe.  The  wood,  Wliiteface, 
his  journey,  the  war,  lay  ready  to  his  hand 
as  accessory  and  secondary  to  his  conscious 
ness.  He  felt  his  own  life,  and  other  life 
was  its  background.  He  made  a  long  cry 
ing  guttural  noise,  like  an  animal.  He 
shook  his  great  body  and  crashed  through 
the  undergrowth,  the  young  saplings  stinging 
his  cheeks.  To-morrow  —  he  would  be  off 
to-morrow. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  41 

He  emerged  upon  the  little  space  which  was 
his  home.  The  fire  had  fallen  and  was  a  red 
glow,  and  a  watching  eye.  Rolled  in  his 
blanket  beside  it  lay  his  father,  deeply  breath 
ing.  In  a  moment  the  Inger  became  another 
being.  He  stood  tense,  stepped  softly,  entered 
quietly  the  open  door  of  his  hut. 

Within  something  stirred,  was  silent,  stirred 
again,  with  a  movement  as  of  garments. 
Out  of  the  darkness,  her  voice  came  : 

"Mr.  Inger :  .  .  .  It's  Lory  Moor." 


Ill 

FOR  a  moment  he  thought  that  this  would 
be  a  part  of  his  crazy  dreaming,  and  he  said 
nothing.  But  then  he  knew  that  she  had 
risen  and  was  standing  before  him ;  and  he 
heard  her  breath,  taken  tremblingly.  Her 
words  came  rushing  —  almost  the  first  words 
that  he  had  ever  heard  her  say : 

"You  been  down  there.  You  know.  I 
don't  know  where  to  go.  Oh  —  don't  tell 
'em!" 

"Tell  'em,"  he  muttered,  stupidly.  "Tell 
'em?" 

"I  can't  do  it,"  she  said  gaspingly.  "I 
can't  —  I  can't." 

She  was  sobbing,  and  the  Inger,  so  lately 
a  flame  of  intent  and  desire,  did  not  dare  to 
touch  her,  and  had  no  least  idea  what  to  say 
to  her.  In  a  moment  she  was  able  to  speak 
again. 

42 


HEART'S  KINDRED  43 

"I  thought  I  could  hide  here  for  a  day  or 
two,"  she  said,  "till  they  quit  huntin'.  Then 
I  could  get  away.  Would  you  hide  me,  some 
how  ?  —  would  you  ?  " 

He  was  silent,  trying  to  think,  with  a  head 
not  too  clear,  how  best  to  do  it;  and  she 
misunderstood. 

"Don't  make  me  go  back  —  don't  tell  Dad 
and  Bunchy !  If  you  can't  hide  me,  I'll  go 
now,"  she  said. 

"What  you  talkin'?"  he  said,  roughly. 
"I'm  thinkin'.  Thinkin'  up  how.  Thinkin' 
up  how."  He  put  his  hands  to  his  temples. 
"  My  head  don't  think,"  he  said  thickly. 

"Here  in  the  hut,"  she  said,  eagerly  and 
clearly.  "They'll  never  think  of  comin'  up 
here.  Why,  I  don't  hardly  know  you." 

"Won't  they  though?"  said  the  Inger,  sud 
denly,  and  dimly  remembered  Bunchy,  and 
the  blow  for  the  sake  of  the  girl.  Last, 
there  came  dancing  to  him  something  about 
a  check  for  the  debt  to  Bunchy  which  she  had 
not  paid. 


44  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"As  it  happens,"  said  the  Inger,  "this  is 
jus'  the  first  place  where  they  will  come 
lookin'  for  you.  Jus'  the  first  place  .  .  ." 

"Why?  "she  cried. 

"Nev'  you  mind,"  he  said. 

He  could  almost  see  her,  standing  within 
his  door,  her  white  face  blooming  from  the 
black.  But  his  sense  of  her  was  obscured  to 
him  by  the  need  for  immediate  action,  and 
by  his  utter  present  inability  to  cope  with  that 
need. 

"How'd  you  come  —  to  come  —  to  come 
up  here?"  he  asked  curiously. 

For  a  breath  she  hesitated,  and  there  was  a 
soft  taking  of  breath  in  her  answer. 

"I  didn't  know  no  woman  I  could  tell," 
she  said,  "nor  no  other  decent  man." 

From  head  to  foot  a  fire  went  over  the 
Inger,  such  as  he  had  never  known.  And 
first  he  was  weak  with  her  words,  and  then 
he  was  jubilantly  strong.  He  put  them  away, 
but  they  lay  within  him  burning,  where  again 
and  again  he  could  turn  to  them  for  warmth. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  45 

"How  —  how'd  you  hit  the  trail  up?"  he 
asked  almost  gently. 

Again  she  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  her 
answer  was  very  low. 

"I'd  been  by  here  once-to-twice  before," 
she  said. 

Hazily  he  turned  this  over.  The  trail  led 
only  to  his  hut.  No  one  ever  came  who  had 
not  come  to  be  there.  Unless  — 

He  threw  back  his  head  as  something  new 
swam  to  consciousness.  She  stood  quietly, 
waiting  to  hear  what  he  would  do.  Some 
sense  of  this  sudden  new  dependence  on  him 
beset  him  like  words. 

"They's  a  way  over  the  mountain,"  he 
muttered.  "I  made  it  in  that  sheriff  bus 
iness.  Can  you  take  that  ?" 

"I'll  go  any  way,"  she  said. 

"It's  pretty  rough,"  he  told  her.  "It's 
pretty  rough,"  he  repeated  with  intense  care. 
"I'll  take  you.  I'll  take  you,"  he  insisted 
thickly. 

"You  mean  you'd  go  with  me?"  she  asked. 


46  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"You'd  never  fin'  it  if  I  didn't,"  he  told  her. 
"Y-you'd  never  fin'  it.  Never." 

"I'll  go  any  way,"  she  repeated.  "But  I 
didn't  mean  to  —  to  come  down  on  to  you  like 
that." 

"Tha's  nothing,"  he  said.  "Tha's  nothing. 
Tha's  nothing." 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  with  the  need  to 
touch  it  and  to  make  it  work  properly.  He 
had  to  think  of  things  to  do,  and  how  could 
he  do  that  ?  His  father,  for  example  —  what 
should  he  do  about  him?  He  went  a  few 
steps  without  the  door,  and  tried  to  consider, 
looking  at  the  sleeping  figure  by  the  fire. 
The  faint  glow  of  the  coals  made  a  little  ring 
of  dim  light.  In  it  he  stood,  swaying. 

"  Oh  my  God,"  she  said,  behind  him.  "  You 
are  drunk." 

"Li'l  bit,"  he  admitted.  "Li'l  bit.  Not 
enough  to  scare  a  b-baby." 

She  put  this  away  scornfully.  "Scare 
nothin',"  she  said  sharply.  "Can  you  keep 
to  the  trail?  That's  all." 


HEART'S  KINDRED  47 

He  laughed  foolishly.  "Tha's  all  right," 
he  repeated,  "I  can  find  trail,  drunk  or 
s-ober." 

She  stood  pressing  her  hands  in  and  out  and 
turning  helplessly  to  the  dark.  The  dark 
gave  her  back  only  the  lights  of  Inch. 

"There's  nothing  else  to  do,"  she  said  dully. 
"If  you  show  me  the  trail,  maybe  I  can  keep 
you  on  it." 

In  some  indeterminate  shame,  he  went 
without  a  word,  brought  his  blanket,  and 
turned  again  to  the  hut. 

"I've  got  a  kit,"  she  said.  "It's  got  enough 
to  eat.  Do  you  understand?  Don't  get 
anything  else.  Oh,  let's  start,  let's  start!" 

As  he  emerged,  his  hand  had  brushed  the 
feathers  of  the  wood  duck.  He  took  it  down 
and  slung  it  fumblingly  to  his  roll  of  blanket. 
Less  by  taking  thought  than  by  old  instinct, 
he  remembered  his  cartridge  belt,  and  found 
and  strapped  it  on.  Then  he  stood  hesitating. 

"Gotta  tell  'm,"  he  suggested,  looking  at 
his  father. 


48  HEART'S  KINDRED 

She  had  shouldered  her  pack  and  stood 
waiting. 

"Why?"  she  demanded.  "It'll  only  be 
harder  for  him  if  they  come.  This  way  he 
won't  know,  and  he  can  tell  'em  so." 

In  this  there  was  reason,  but  not,  it  seemed, 
enough  reason.  The  Inger  stood  trying  to 
recall  something  pressing  on  him  for  remem 
brance  :  if  not  his  father,  what  was  it  that 
he  must  do  or  fetch,  before  he  left.  He  put 
both  hands  to  his  head,  but  in  there  was  only 
a  current  and  a  beating. 

"There's  s'more  to  do,"  he  said  indistinctly. 

Lory  Moor  stepped  toward  him  and  laid 
her  hand  briskly  on  his  shoulder,  with  a  boy's 
gesture  of  eager  haste. 

"The  trail  — the  trail!"  she  said,  with 
authority.  "Find  us  the  trail." 

Without  a  word  he  started,  went  round  the 
end  of  the  hut,  and  plunged  into  the  wood, 
which  ran  down  to  the  very  wall.  In  a  half 
dozen  steps  the  ascent  began. 

Even  by  daylight  the  trail  was  little  more 


HEART'S  KINDRED  49 

than  an  irregular  line  of  bent  branches  and 
blazed  trunks.  Since  he  had  finished  it,  the 
Inger  had  taken  it  a  dozen  times  by  daylight 
with  a  boy's  delight  in  a  secret  way.  By 
night  he  had  never  taken  it  at  all.  But  he 
had  the  woodsman's  instinct  and,  now  that 
his  thoughts  were  stilled  or  lost  in  a  maze  of 
their  own  inconsequent  making,  this  secondary 
consciousness  was  for  a  time  paramount. 
He  went  as  a  man  goes  who  treads  his  own 
ways,  and  though  he  went  irregularly  and 
sometimes  staggeringly,  he  managed  at  first 
to  keep  to  the  course  that  he  had  taken. 

Over  the  mountain  by  the  trail  to  the  rail 
way  station  —  that  had  become  clear  to  him. 
When  they  should  reach  it  or  how  the  rail 
way  should  serve,  was  not  his  concern  at  all. 
Meanwhile,  here  she  was  with  him.  He  tried 
to  get  this  straight,  and  cursed  his  head  that 
only  buzzed  with  the  knowledge  and  whipped 
him  with  the  need  to  keep  to  the  trail. 

"Lory  Moor,"  he  tried  to  grasp  it;  "Jem 
Moor's  girl.  She  never  married  Bunchy  at 


50  HEART'S  KINDRED 

all.  She's  here  —  with  me.  I've  got  her 
with  me  ..." 

The  girl  was  not  a  pace  behind  him.  She 
had  stretched  out  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  his 
roll  of  blanket  and  thus,  though  seeing  nothing, 
she  was  able  to  fit  her  steps  somewhat  to  his, 
to  halt  when  he  halted,  to  swerve  or  to  slow 
or  to  retrace.  She  was  profoundly  thankful 
for  his  consent  to  take  her  away,  and  in  that 
consent  she  rested  without  thought  or  plan. 

An  hour  passed  before  the  Inger  missed  the 
trail.  In  a  stretch  fairly  free  of  undergrowth, 
he  stood  still  for  a  moment  to  take  his  bear 
ings,  and  thrust  out  his  hand  against  a  decliv 
ity,  sharp  with  fallen  rock.  To  the  right  the 
wall  extended  to  meet  the  abrupt  shoulder  of 
the  slope ;  to  the  left  it  dropped  away  so  that  a 
stone,  sent  down,  went  crashing  far  below. 

"Stay  here,"  the  Inger  commanded,  and 
found  his  way  up  in  a  shower  of  falling  rocks, 
to  the  summit  of  the  obstruction.  He  clung 
to  a  tree,  and  listened.  The  mountain  brook, 
which  they  should  cross  some  rods  ahead,  was 


HEART'S  KINDRED  51 

not  yet  audible.  On  the  other  side  the  rocks 
fell  precipitately;  and  leaning  out,  he 
seemed  to  sense  tree-tops. 

"Look  out!"  he  called,  and  clambered 
down  again,  and  bade  her  wait  while  he  went 
and  came  back  and  went  and  came  back  in 
vain.  She  heard  him  stumbling,  no  more  fit 
to  find  a  trail  than  to  think  his  thoughts. 

"I'm  stumped,"  he  said.  "We've  got 
wrong  somewheres." 

She  answered  nothing.  She  was  sitting 
on  the  ground  where  he  had  left  her.  Her 
silence  touched  him  somehow  as  a  rebuke. 
"You  think  it's  because  I'm  drunk,"  he 
said,  in  a  challenge. 

"I  don't  think  anything,"  she  answered. 
"Rest  a  little  —  then  mebbe  we  can  get 
right  again." 

He  flung  himself  down  on  his  face.  The 
scent  of  pine  needles  and  dead  leaves  was 
there,  waiting  for  him.  The  stillness  of  the 
wood  took  them  both,  and  for  a  few  minutes 
they  were  silent. 


52  HEART'S  KINDRED 

And  as  he  lay  there,  with  her  sitting  beside 
him,  something  of  the  desert,  of  an  hour 
before,  came  running  along  his  veins  and  took 
him,  and,  something,  too,  of  the  time  when  he 
had  had  her  before  him  on  his  horse,  galloping. 
When  that  time  had  been  he  could  not  say ; 
but  he  remembered  it  with  distinctness,  and 
that  day  he  had  had  his  arms  about  her. 

"We  rode  —  on  a  horse,"  he  submitted, 
suddenly.  "C'n  you  'member  that  day?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "Don't  talk,"  she 
begged  him,  "just  rest.  I  want  to  rest." 

The  Inger  was  silent.  His  mind  was  busy 
trying  to  piece  together  what  he  knew  of 
that  day  —  of  her  there  before  him  on  his 
horse,  of  her  face  laughing  at  him  as  she 
ran  away. 

''You  threw  me  a  kiss,"  he  offered,  after  a 
pause. 

"Don't  talk,  don't  talk,"  she  begged  him. 
"I  can't  breathe  —  let  me  rest." 

"I  wish  it  was  that  day  now,"  he  said 
foolishly,  and  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  lay 


HEART'S  KINDRED  53 

quiet.  But  in  a  few  minutes  he  roused  him 
self,  his  mind  struggling  with  a  new  problem. 
What  a  fool  he  was,  wishing  for  that  day, 
when  here  she  was,  just  the  same  as  then. 
What  was  the  matter  with  this  day  ? 

"Wha's  the  matter  with  this  day?"  he 
inquired,  reasonably.  Then  he  remembered. 
They  were  lost,  of  course.  The  trail  was 
gone  —  gone  clean  off. 

"Gone  clean  off,"  he  muttered,  reproach 
fully.  "Damn  dirty  trick  to  play." 

Then  he  was  shot  through  with  his  domi 
nant  consciousness.  Here  she  was,  here  she 
was  —  with  him.  There  was  something  else, 
something  that  she  had  said  which  made  a 
reason  why  he  should  not  touch  her.  But 
what  was  that  ?  It  was  gone  —  gone  clean 
off,  gone  with  the  trail.  .  .  . 

Back  upon  him  came  flooding  the  desire  of 
the  desert,  as  he  had  run  with  the  thought  of 
her  and  with  the  thought  of  battle.  Then 
he  had  believed  that  she  belonged  to  Bunchy. 
That  was  a  lie  and  Bunchy  was  a  fool.  Every- 


54  HEART'S  KINDRED 

thing  was  different,  and  now  here  she  was  and 
nobody  knew.  .  .  . 

He  lifted  himself,  and  scrambled  forward 
toward  her. 

"We're  lost,"  he  said  thickly.  "Wha'd 
we  care  ?  Wha'd  we  care  ..." 

He  put  out  his  arms,  but  they  did  not  touch 
her.  He  swept  a  circle,  and  they  did  not 
enclose  her.  Alarmed,  he  rose  and  lurched 
forward,  feeling  out  in  all  directions,  an  arm's 
span.  And  she  was  not  within  his  reach  nor 
within  the  crazy  length  which  he  ran,  with 
outspread  hands,  trying  to  find  her. 

At  last  his  foot  caught  in  a  root  and  he  fell, 
and  lay  there,  and  began  quietly  weeping. 
Now  she  was  gone  and  the  trail  was  gone. 
He  was  treated  like  a  dog  by  both  of  them. 
He  fumbled  for  his  pack,  but  he  had  slipped 
that  off  when  he  climbed  the  rocks,  and  now 
that  was  gone  too.  He  wept,  and  lay  still. 
In  a  few  moments  he  was  sleeping. 


IV 

WHEN  he  awoke,  he  looked  into  soft  branches, 
gray  in  dim  light.  The  whole  mountain  was 
lyric  with  birds.  There  was  no  other  sound, 
save  the  lift  and  touch  of  branches,  and  the 
chatter  of  a  squirrel,  and  there  was  as  yet  no 
sun. 

\  He  remembered.  And  with  the  memory, 
a  rush  of  aching,  eating  shame  seized  on  him 
and  he  closed  his  eyes  again.  Then  he 
thought  that  he  must  have  dreamed  it  all. 
And  that  it  was  impossible  that  such  a  thing 
should  be.  Yet  here  he  was  in  the  woods, 
where  she  had  left  him  because  he  was  a 
fool.  Where  had  she  gone?  He  sprang  up, 
mad  to  find  her,  possessed  by  the  need  to 
make  amends,  and  by  the  sheer  need  to  find 
her. 

As  he  sat  up,  he  threw  off  his  blanket,  and 
he    marvelled   that    this    should    have   been 

55 


56  HEART'S  KINDRED 

covering  him.  Then  he  found  himself  look 
ing  into  Lory  Moor's  face. 

She  was  sitting  near  him,  wrapped  in  her 
own  blanket,  leaning  against  a  tree.  She 
was  wide  awake,  and  by  all  signs  she  had 
been  so  for  a  long  time,  for  a  great  cluster  of 
mountain  violets  lay  on  her  blanket. 

When  she  saw  that  he  was  awake,  she 
smiled,  and  this  seemed  to  the  Inger  the 
most  marvellous  thing  that  ever  had  be 
fallen  him :  that  she  was  there  and  that  she 
smiled. 

He  looked  at  her  silently,  and  slowly  under 
the  even  brownness  of  his  skin,  the  color  rose 
from  his  throat  to  his  forehead,  and  burned 
crimson.  But  more  than  this  color  of  shame, 
it  was  his  eyes  that  told.  They  were  upon 
her,  brown,  deep,  like  the  eyes  of  a  dog  that 
has  disobeyed,  and  has  come  back.  For  a 
moment  he  looked  at  her,  then  he  dropped 
his  face  in  his  hands. 

She  moved  so  quietly  that  he  did  not  hear 
her  rise.  He  merely  felt  her  hand  on  his 


HEART'S  KINDRED  57 

shoulder.  And  when  he  looked  up  again, 
she  was  sitting  there  beside  him. 

"Don't,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  Her  look 
was  gentle,  her  voice  had  been  gentle. 

"You  mustn't,"  she  said.     "It's  all  over 


now." 


"What  do  you  think  of  me?  What  do 
you  think  of  me?"  he  muttered,  stupidly. 

She  shrugged  lightly.  "It  don't  make  any 
difference  what  I  think  of  you,"  she  said. 
"Ain't  it  whether  I'm  goin'  to  get  away  from 
Inch  or  not?  Ain't  that  the  idea?" 

When  he  came  to  think  of  it,  that  was  the 
immediate  concern.  With  his  first  utterance 
he  had  blundered,  as  he  had  blundered  since 
the  moment  when  she  had  put  herself  in  his 
keeping.  None  the  less  his  misery  was  too 
sharp  to  dismiss.  But  he  had  no  clear  idea 
how  to  ask  a  woman's  forgiveness  —  a  thing 
that  he  had  never  done  in  his  life. 

"I  feel  as  bad  as  hell,"  he  blurted  out. 

"What  for?  "she  asked. 


58  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"For  all  I've  done,"  he  put  it. 

She  considered  this. 

"Look  here,"  she  said  slowly.  "You've 
been  drunk  before  often  enough,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  miserably. 

"Well,  don't  feel  bad  about  this  just 
because  I  mixed  up  in  it,"  she  said.  "I'm 
used  to  it.  I  see  Dad  and  all  of  'em  drunk 
more  times  'n  I  see  'em  sober." 

He  looked  away  from  her. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  just  about  being  drunk," 
he  said.  "I  meant  —  what  I  said  to  you." 

"Oh  —  that ! "  she  said.  "  Well.  All  men 
say  that,  I  guess."  She  looked  at  him.  "I 
did  guess  you  was  different,  but  I  ought  to 
knowed  better." 

Then  in  a  flash  of  intense  joy,  he  remem 
bered  what  she  had  said  to  him  in  the  hut. 
Her  words  came  back  as  if  she  were  speaking 
them  again:  "I  didn't  know  no  woman  I 
could  tell.  Nor  no  other  decent  man."  Once 
more  the  warmth  of  this  was  upon  him, 
within  him.  Then  the  recollection  of  how 


HEART'S  KINDRED  59 

he  had  failed  her  invaded  him  in  an  anguish 
new,  impossible  to  combat.  For  she  had 
thought  that  he  was  different  from  Jem 
Moor  and  Bunchy.  .  .  . 

The  Inger  got  to  his  feet. 

"I  am  differ'nt,"  he  heard  himself  sur 
prisingly  saying. 

She  regarded  him  curiously,  and  with 
nothing  in  her  eyes.  It  came  to  him  as  he 
stood  looking  down  at  her,  that  he  would 
give  all  that  might  be  asked  if  he  could  have 
seen  her  eyes  as  she  looked  up  at  him  in  the 
hut  the  night  before  and  told  him  why  she 
had  come  to  him  to  help  her.  In  the  face  of 
what  had  happened,  the  foolishness  of  pro 
testing  that  he  was  different  overcame  him, 
and  he  fell  silent. 

A  new  anxiety  beset  him. 

"Did  you  sleep  ?"  he  asked  her. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  was  afraid,"  she 
answered,  simply. 

The  Inger  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  the 
strength  had  run  from  his  body.  She  had  sat 


60  HEART'S  KINDRED 

there,  afraid,  while  he  had  slept  —  and  he 
himself  had  been  a  part  of  her  fear.  .  .  . 

He  turned  away,  and  across  the  tops  of 
the  trees,  he  looked  over  the  valley,  still 
lying  in  the  shadow.  There  was  mist,  and 
down  there  the  pointed  tops  of  the  trees 
showed  like  green  buds  fastened  to  soft 
wool.  Where  they  two*  were,  the  sun  was 
already  smiting  the  branches,  and  silencing 
the  birds.  Overhead,  the  clear  blue,  touched 
by  sunny  clouds,  lay  very  near.  It  was  as 
if  he  were  trying  to  find,  among  them,  some 
thing  that  could  help  him  to  tell  her  what  he 
was  feeling.  But  he  found  nothing  and  he 
said  nothing.  He  caught  up  the  blanket 
and  flung  it  savagely  aside,  seized  a  great 
dead  limb  lying  beside  him  and  broke  it 
over  his  knee. 

"Get  out  the  stuff,"  he  bade  her.  "We'll 
have  a  fire." 

He  built  and  lighted  the  fire,  brought  the 
water,  and  found  his  way  down  to  the 
brook.  He  threw  off  his  clothes,  and  lay 


HEART'S  KINDRED  61 

flat  in  the  bed  of  the  stream,  his  head  on  a 
rock.  The  sharp  stones  cut  his  flesh,  and 
the  water  somehow  helped  to  heal  him. 
He  shook  himself,  dried  by  a  run  down  the 
trail,  dressed,  and  returned,  glowing. 

The  coffee  was  on  the  fire,  and  she  was 
making  toast  on  a  stick.  She  had  spread 
what  food  she  had  brought,  chiefly  fruit  and 
cooked  meat  and  cheese. 

66  Didn't  I  bring  any  grub  ?"  he  demanded. 

"The  bird,"  she  answered.  "The  big 
bird." 

"That's  for  dinner,"  he  observed,  gruffly, 
and  said  no  more. 

He  took  the  stick  from  her  and  made  the 
toast.  When  she  poured  the  coffee,  it  was 
clear  and  golden  and  fragrant.  She  had 
two  plates  and  two  cups,  the  Inger  noticed. 
She  made  him  roll  the  blankets  for  seats.  In 
spite  of  his  suffering  —  which  was  the  more 
real  that  it  was  new  to  him  —  the  cheer  and 
the  invitation  of  the  time  warmed  him.  But 
as  for  her  loveliness,  he  found  himself  now 


62  HEART'S  KINDRED 

hardly  looking  at  that,  save  when  he  must, 
as  if  what  she  was  had  become  to  him  some 
thing  utterly  forbidden. 

As  for  her,  while  she  ate,  she  continually 
listened,  and  if  a  twig  broke,  she  started. 
For  this  she  laughed  at  herself  once. 

"But  if  he  should  come,"  she  said,  "if  he 
should  come  .  .  ." 

The  Inger  looked  at  her,  that  once,  stead 
fastly. 

"If  he  should  come,"  he  said,  "I  could  save 
you  —  now." 

The  elusive  trail  which  had  baffled  him,  led 
with  perfect  distinctness  along  a  little  shelf 
three  steps  up  and  around  that  sharp  height 
of  rocks  which  he  had  scaled,  and  then  the 
trail  dipped  down  into  a  narrow  canon,  and 
up.  Before  the  sun  was  an  hour  high,  they 
were  on  their  way  again. 

With  their  brisk  progress,  her  spirits  rose, 
and  once,  to  the  Inger's  exquisite  delight, 
she  broke  into  a  lilt  of  song. 

"You  sing  the  way  you  laugh,"  he  said 


HEART'S  KINDRED  63 

awkwardly.  And  she  flashed  him  a  smile, 
over  shoulder,  as  she  had  done  that  morning 
on  the  desert. 

A  tanager  drew  a  line  of  scarlet  through  the 
trees,  and  burned  from  a  bough  before  them. 
In  an  instant  the  Inger's  hand  was  raised, 
and  he  had  aimed.  But  in  that  second,  his 
arm  was  struck  aside,  the  shot  glanced 
harmlessly  among  the  trees,  and  the  bird 
flashed  safe  to  the  thicket. 

He  looked  round  at  her  in  open  amaze 
ment. 

"What  did  y'  do  that  for?"  he  demanded. 

"What  did  you  want  to  go  and  kill  him 
for?"  she  cried. 

He  considered  this  :  what  had  he  wanted  to 
kill  that  red  bird  for  ? 

"He  was  such  a  pretty  little  fellow,"  she 
said,  but  instead  of  a  rebuke,  this  seemed  to 
him  a  reason. 

"Yes,"  he  seized  it  eagerly.  "That's  why. 
You  want  to  get  up  close  to  'em." 

"But  if  they're  dead  .  .  ."  she  protested. 


64  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"You  want  to  get  up  nearer  to  'em,"  he 
repeated.  "Don't  you  see?  It's  the  only 
way  you  can." 

She  said  nothing.  She  was  walking  before 
him  now,  and  he  watched  her.  She  had 
braided  her  hair,  and  he  liked  the  way  the 
bright  braids  moved  on  her  shoulders  when  she 
walked,  and  hung  against  the  hollow  of  her 
waist.  She  must  have  braided  her  hair,  he 
reflected,  before  he  woke.  Then  he  remem 
bered  the  blanket  which  he  had  found  folded 
across  his  shoulders.  She  must  have  found 
it,  unstrapped  it,  covered  him  as  he  lay.  He 
longed  to  let  her  know  that  he  knew,  but  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  recall  the  time. 
"She  seems  to  do  everything  so  careful,"  he 
thought,  and  remembered  the  red  bird  and 
tried  to  fathom  her  care  for  that.  When  she 
stooped  to  pick  up  a  shining  stone,  he  laughed 
out. 

"See!"  he  said.  "You  want  to  pick  up 
that  stone  to  see  it.  Well,  I  wanted  to  kill 
the  bird  —  to  see  it." 


HEART'S  KINDRED  65 

"But  the  bird  was  alive !"  she  exclaimed. 

He  stared  at  her. 

"What  of  it  ? "  said  he.  "  Look  at  the  lots 
of  'em  there  are !" 

She  said  nothing. 

"  Who'd  miss  it  ? "  he  argued.  "  Who  wants 
it  ?  You  always  kill  things." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  vaguely.  "I 
don't  know  why.  But  it  don't  seem  right." 

Women  were  like  that,  he  reflected.  They 
hated  blood.  But  —  a  bird !  It  was  un 
fathomable. 

High  noon  found  them  on  the  summit  of 
Whiteface,  looking  down  upon  the  crouching 
shoulders  of  the  east  foothills.  Where  they 
stood,  the  sun  beat  hotly,  and  the  bare  rocks 
and  the  coarse  growth  lay  in  intense  brooding 
quiet.  Everything  there  was  flat,  as  if  the 
long  pressure  of  the  sun  had  told,  like  weight. 

Electrically,  the  Inger's  spirits  returned  to 
him.  Here  on  the  height,  kindling  fire,  boil 
ing  water,  spreading  food,  were  no  such  busi 
ness  as  these  had  been  to  him  down  on  his  little 


66  HEART'S  KINDRED 

shelf.  Here  everything  had  a  way  of  being 
that  was  hitherto  unknown  to  him.  When 
their  table  was  spread  in  the  shade  of  a  pine, 
and  the  wood  duck  roasted  slowly  over  the 
fire  on  a  spit  which  he  had  fashioned,  he  stood 
up  and  surveyed  their  work,  and  his  look  fell 
on  the  girl,  sitting  relaxed,  with  loosely  fallen 
hands,  the  sun  striking  her  hair  to  brightness. 

For  a  moment  he  let  himself  watch  her, 
and  catching  his  look,  she  smiled,  as  she  had 
smiled  when  his  eyes  had  met  hers  as  he  woke. 

"Yi  —  eh!  Yi— eh!  Yi—e  —  h!" he  sud 
denly  shouted  with  the  strength  of  his  lungs. 

The  echo  rolled  back  to  them  like  a  taunt. 

She  sprang  up. 

"If  they're  huntin'  us — "  she  said,  trem 
bling,  "oh,  they'll  hear  that!" 

He  looked  at  her  in  horror.  Fool !  Would 
he  never  have  done  with  his  blundering  .  .  . 

"Oh,  my  God,  I  forgot,"  he  exclaimed,  con 
tritely,  and  dropped  to  the  ground.  "I  don't 
get  rested  between  kicking  myself  for  being  a 
damn  fool,"  he  said. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  67 

While  they  ate,  he  was  quiet.  There  was 
no  way  to  let  her  know  how  much  he  hated 
himself,  and  his  thought  was  occupied  with 
nothing  else.  And  it  was  as  if  she  divined, 
for  she  became  very  gentle. 

"I  guess  maybe  you  wanted  to  do  somethin' 
else  to-day,"  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It's  awful,  me  makin'  you  do  this,"  she 
added.  "  Don't  you  think  I  don't  know  that." 

"I  ain't  doin'  anything  —  what  am  I 
doin'  ?"  he  burst  out. 

She  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"You're  takin'  me  out  of  a  good  sight 
worse'n  death,"  she  answered.  "And  don't 
you  think  I'll  ever  forget  it." 

There  was  about  her  manner  of  saying  this 
something  infinitely  alluring.  She  fell  in  a 
sudden  breathlessness,  and  her  voice  had  a 
tremor  which  seemed  to  lie  in  the  very  words 
themselves.  And  with  this,  and  with  what 
she  said,  the  Inger  found  himself  suddenly 
utterly  unable  to  deal. 


68  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"Oh,  g'on,"  he  said,  feebly. 

She  said  no  more,  and  for  a  moment  he  was 
wretched  again  lest  he  had  offended  her. 
But  the  gentleness  and  softness  of  her  manner 
reassured  him.  Moreover,  he  became  con 
scious  that  of  the  cheese  and  bread  she  was 
leaving  the  greater  part  for  him,  and  pre 
tending  to  have  finished. 

After  their  lunch,  a  consuming  content  fell 
upon  the  man,  and  he  lay  stretched  on  his 
back,  under  the  pine,  staring  upward,  thinking 
of  nothing.  For  a  little  she  moved  about,  and 
then  she  came  and  sat  beside  him,  saying  noth 
ing.  More  than  he  knew,  this  power  of  hers 
for  silence  conquered  him.  When  a  man  knows 
how  to  live  alone,  he  may  or  may  not  under 
stand  words,  but  he  always  understands  silence. 

Presently  he  looked  over  at  her,  and  seeing 
that  her  eyes  were  heavy,  he  sat  erect,  with 
the  memory  of  her  night's  vigil. 

"Could  you  go  to  sleep?"  he  demanded. 

She  nodded.  "I  could,"  she  said.  "I 
guess  there  ain't  the  time,"  she  added. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  69 

"Yes,  there  is,"  he  said  eagerly.  "We  can 
get  down  from  here  in  no  time.  You  rest 
yourself." 

She  regarded  him  for  a  moment.  Then, 
without  a  word,  she  drew  her  blanket  toward 
her,  rested  her  head  upon  it,  and  relaxed  like 
a  child.  In  a  moment  she  lay  sleeping. 

Then  he  looked  at  her.  All  that  day  he 
had  averted  his  eyes,  in  his  shame.  But  now 
that  there  could  be  in  her  look  no  rebuke,  no 
reminiscence  of  the  night,  he  looked  at  her  as 
freely  as  he  had  looked  that  day  on  the  desert, 
when  she  had  sat  his  horse  before  him.  Only 
then  his  look  had  been  a  flame,  and  now  it 
was  as  if  the  sight  of  her  was  to  him  a  healing 
power.  For  she  still  trusted  him.  She  was 
lying  here  asleep,  and  she  had  set  him  to 
watch.  Immeasurably,  she  was  giving  him 
back  his  self-respect,  restoring  to  him  his  own 
place  in  her  eyes  and  in  his  own.  He  had 
no  knowledge  that  this  bore  so  strong  a  part 
in  the  creeping  sweetness  which  possessed 
him.  He  only  knew  that  he  was  happy,  that 


70  HEART'S  KINDRED 

he  dreaded  the  time  when  she  should  awaken 
almost  as  much  as  he  longed  for  it ;  and  he 
hoped  with  childish  intensity  that  the  after 
noon  would  never  end. 

That  was  an  hour  such  as  the  man  had  never 
known.  Women  had  followed  him,  tempted 
him,  run  from  him,  but  never  in  his  life  had  a 
woman  either  begged  his  help,  as  one  being 
of  another,  or  walked  with  him,  comradely. 
And  with  women  he  had  always  moved  as 
lord  and  dispenser,  avoiding  them,  taking 
them  for  granted,  occasionally  pursuing  them, 
but  always  as  chief  actor.  Now,  suddenly, 
he  had  become  in  his  own  sight,  infinitely 
the  lesser  of  the  two ;  and  even  that  grateful 
return  of  belief  in  himself  was  a  thing  which 
she  was,  so  gently,  bestowing.  He  sat,  sunk 
in  the  newness  of  what  had  come  upon  him, 
making  no  effort  to  understand,  and  looking 
neither  forward  nor  back.  He  was  beset 
alike  by  the  knowledge  that  she  trusted  him, 
and  by  the  soft  movement  of  her  breathing 
and  by  the  flushed  ripeness  of  her,  and  by 


HEART'S  KINDRED  71 

the  fact  that,  at  any  second,  she  might  waken 
and  then  smile  upon  him. 

When,  toward  four  o'clock,  she  did  waken, 
her  smile,  that  was  as  instant  as  at  a  child's 
awakening,  was  straightway  darkened  by  a 
cloud  of  fear. 

"It's  late,"  she  said.  "The  train  — can 
we  get  it  now  ?  " 

"Can  we  get  it  now  .  .  ."  The  Inger 
paused  to  taste  this  before  he  answered. 

"Easy,"  he  said.  "You  mean  the  eight: 
fifteen  for  Barstow  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "The  eight  :  fifteen." 
She  had  not  meant  for  Barstow,  but  that,  as 
the  farthest  eastern  destination  of  those  who 
usually  took  train  from  Inch,  was  the  limit 
of  the  Inger's  imagining. 

"Easy,"  he  repeated. 

The  way  of  descent,  in  the  slanting  light, 
was  incredibly  lovely.  The  time  had  as 
sumed  another  air.  With  that  low  sun, 
everything  was  thrown  sharply  against  the  sky, 
like  a  pattern  on  a  background.  Something 


72  HEART'S  KINDRED 

of  the  magic  of  the  Northern  days  lay  upon 
that  Southern  land. 

Once,  feeling  suddenly  articulate,  the  Inger 
looked  over  his  shoulder  at  her,  as  she  fol 
lowed. 

"It's  hell,  ain't  it?"  he  said  admiringly. 

She  understood  this  as  the  extreme  of 
expression,  anywhere  applied. 

"Ain't  it?"  she  agreed  fervently. 

It  was  not  yet  seven  o'clock  when  they 
emerged  from  the  last  canon,  and  tramped 
across  the  sage  brush  toward  the  town. 
There  the  lights  were  slowly  shining  out,  and 
all  the  tawdry,  squalid  play  of  the  night  was 
beginning,  as  night  after  night  it  begins  in 
the  ugly  settlements  where  men  herd  on  the 
Great  Desert  under  solemn  skies.  As  the 
first  sound  of  rattling  music  came  to  the  man 
and  the  woman,  she  turned  to  him. 

"Is  big  towns  like  little  ones,  do  you 
know?"  she  asked. 

He  reflected,  remembered  San  Francisco, 
and  replied : 


HEART'S  KINDRED  73 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  s'pose  so,  mostly.  But 
the  parts  where  the  folks  try  to  be  nice,"  he 
added,  vindictively,  "are  worse'n  this  and 
Inch." 

"Why?"  she  demanded,  in  surprise. 

"Because,"  he  said,  "they  get  too  nice. 
They're  slush  nice,"  he  explained  it. 

She  mulled  this. 

"I  saw  a  lady,  once,"  she  said.  "She  got 
off  at  Inch  to  mail  a  letter.  Her  hair  was 
combed  pretty  and  she  had  her  gloves  on  and 
her  shoes  fit  her  feet  —  I  donno.  She  must 
of  come  from  somewheres,"  she  added  vaguely. 

He  was  silent  and  she  tried  to  be  clear. 

"She  wasn't  good-dressed  like  Beautiful 
Kate  and  them,"  she  added  anxiously.  "She 
spoke  nice,  too.  I  heard  her  get  a  stamp 
from  Leadpipe  Pete.  Her  words  come  so  — 
easy." 

He  nodded. 

"There  are  them,"  he  said  from  his  ex 
perience.  "But  not  many." 

As    they    approached    the    station    some 


74  HEART'S  KINDRED 

stragglers  were  gathering  to  wait  for  the 
train,  and  the  two  remained  near  the  far  end 
of  the  platform.  A  monotonously  repeated 
command  forced  itself  to  their  attention. 
On  a  stretch  of  bare,  hard-trodden  sand,  a 
company  of  the  town  guard  was  drilling  in  the 
twilight.  About  forty  slim,  loose- join  ted 
youths  were  advancing  and  wheeling  under 
the  direction  of  a  stocky,  middle-aged  man 
who  walked  like  a  rooster  and  shouted  indis- 
tinguishably,  in  the  evident  belief  that  the 
tone  was  the  thing.  The  Inger  walked  to 
the  edge  of  the  platform,  and  stared  at  them. 

"That's  the  United  States  Army,"  he  said, 
not  without  reverence. 

She  made  no  comment,  and  they  watched 
the  whole  line  in  columns  of  four,  advancing 
in  double  time.  The  rhythmic  motion  of  the 
khaki  legs  vaguely  touched  the  Inger  with 
sensuous  pleasure. 

"Ain't  it  grand?"  he  said. 

"Grand!"  repeated  the  girl.  "It's  the 
limit." 


HEART'S  KINDRED  75 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  looking 
round  at  her. 

"When  they  march,"  she  said,  "I  always 
think:  'Dead  legs,  dead  legs,  dead  legs.' 
I  hate  'em." 

He  smiled  tolerantly. 

"Women  are  lame  ducks  on  the  war 
game,"  he  admitted.  "Look-a-here,"  he 
added.  "  I  might  as  well  tell  you :  I'm  goin' 
to  Europe  to  get  into  the  fight." 

"On  purpose?"  she  asked,  incredulously. 

He  nodded.  "It's  the  only  man's  job  on 
the  place  just  now,"  he  told  her.  "  Everybody 
else  is  just  hangin'  round,  lookin'  on.  I  want 
to  be  in  on  it." 

She  stood  very  still,  and  in  the  half  light 
her  face  seemed  white  and  suddenly  tired. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  which  side?"  he 
prompted  her. 

"I  don't  care  which  side,"  she  answered,  and 
walked  back  toward  the  end  of  the  platform. 

He  kept  beside  her,  curiously  beset  by  the 
need  to  follow  his  spectacular  announcement 


76  HEART'S  KINDRED 

with  some  explanation.  And  abruptly  he 
thought  that  he  understood  her  attitude. 

"I  s'pose,"  he  said,  shamefacedly,  "you're 
thinkin'  1  won't  be  much  of  a  soldier  if  I 
behave  as  I  did  last  night." 

"Oh  no,"  she  said,  "I  don't  see  as  it 
matters  much  whether  they're  shot  drunk  or 
shot  sober." 

While  he  was  groping  at  this,  she  added : 

"I  donno  but  they're  better  off  drunk  — 
they  can't  kill  so  many  o'  the  others." 

"You  don't  understand — "  he  began,  but 
she  cut  him  short  curtly. 

"I  better  get  my  ticket,"  she  said. 

"I'll  get  it,"  he  told  her.  "Barstow  — 
ain't  it?" 

"No,  I'm  not  going  to  Barstow,"  she 
answered.  "Get  it  to  Lamy." 

He  faced  her  in  astonishment. 

"Lamy!"  he  cried.  "Murderation.  Clear 
east?" 

"I've  counted  up,"  she  explained.  "That's 
as  far  as  I've  got  the  money  to  get.  I  can 


HEART'S  KINDRED  77 

stay  there  till  I  earn  some  to  go  on  with.     I've 
got  an  aunt  in  Chicago." 

"East!"  he  said  weakly.     "Why,  I  never 
thought  o'  you  goin'  East." 

The  station  platform  led  with  that  amazing 
informality  of  the  western  American  railway 
station,  to  the  raw  elemental  sand  of  the 
desert.  Within  sight  of  the  electric  lamps 
of  the  station,  were  the  tall  flowers  of  the 
Yucca  and  the  leaves  of  the  Spanish  bayonet 
and  the  flare  of  the  spineless  cactus  under 
uninterrupted  areas  of  dusky  sky,  stretched 
as  sand  and  sky  had  stretched  for  countless 
ages.  Of  the  faint  tread  of  the  soldiers,  the 
commands  of  the  captain,  the  trundle  of  a 
truck,  the  click  of  the  telegraph  instrument, 
those  sands  and  those  stars  were  as  uncon 
scious  as  they  had  been  in  the  beginning. 
And  abruptly,  as  he  looked  at  these  life 
long  friends  of  his,  the  Inger  felt  intolerably 
alone. 

"What  do  you  want  to  go  East  for?"  he 
demanded. 


78  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"Chicago's  the  only  place  I've  got  anybody 
I  could  go  to,"  she  said.  "But  that  ain't 
the  reason,"  she  added.  "I  want  to  get  as 
far  as  I  can,  'count  of  Bunchy." 

She  looked  back  at  the  group  gathering  at 
the  station  to  see  the  train  come  in. 

"You  better  get  the  ticket  just  to  Albu 
querque,"  she  said.  "Somebody  might  try 
to  follow  me  up." 

"Albuquerque  nothing,"  he  said  roughly. 
"  I'll  buy  you  your  ticket  right  through  —  to 
Chicago."  He  went  toward  her.  "Don't  go 
—  don't  go  !  "  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him,  intently,  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  fathom  what  he  would  have  said. 
But  in  that  intentness  of  her  look,  he  saw 
only  her  memory  of  the  night  before.  He 
drew  sharply  back,  and  turned  away.  "I 
hate  for  you  to  go  'way  off  there  alone,"  he 
mumbled. 

Across  the  desert,  clear  against  the  dusk  of 
the  mountains,  a  red  eye  came  toward  them. 
She  saw  it. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  79 

"Oh  quick,"  she  said.  "There's  the  train. 
Get  it  just  to  Albuquerque.  I'll  be  all  right." 

She  gave  him  a  knotted  handkerchief,  and 
he  took  it  and  ran  down  the  platform.  This 
handkerchief  he  could  give  back  to  her  as 
she  was  leaving,  and  he  would  of  course  buy 
the  ticket  through  — 

He  stopped  short  on  the  platform. 

"What  with,  you  fool?"  he  thought. 

He  remembered  his  drunken  impression  of 
the  night  before  that  there  was,  before  he 
should  leave,  something  more  to  do,  or  to  fetch. 
His  hand  went  to  his  pocket.  Half  a  dozen 
silver  dollars  were  there,  no  more.  In  his 
wallet,  which  he  searched  under  the  light, 
were  two  five  dollar  bills.  By  now  he  could 
hear  the  rumble  of  the  Overland. 

Outside  the  station  two  or  three  Mexicans 
were  lounging.  Half  a  dozen  renegade  In 
dians  were  faithfully  arriving  with  their  bead 
chains  and  baskets.  The  waiting-room  was 
empty. 

The  Inger  went  in  the  waiting-room  and 


80  HEART'S  KINDRED 

closed  the  door.  The  ticket  agent  stood  be 
hind  his  window,  counting  that  which  ticket- 
agents  perpetually  count.  The  Inger  thrust 
his  own  head  and  shoulders  through  the 
window,  and  with  them  went  his  revolver. 

"I'm  Inger  of  Inch,"  he  said.  "I  guess 
you  know  me,  don't  you?  Just  you  give  me  a 
through  ticket  and  all  the  trimmings  to  Chicago, 
till  I  can  get  to  a  bank,  or  I'll  blow  all  your 
brains  out  of  you.  Can  you  understand  ?" 

The  ticket  agent  glanced  up,  looked  into 
the  muzzle,  and  went  on  quietly  counting. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Inger,"  he  said.  "I  guess 
the  Flagpole  can  stand  that  much.  But  you 
hadn't  ought  to  be  so  devilish  lordly  in  your 
ways,"  he  complained. 

The  Inger  pocketed  his  revolver,  and  smiled 
—  the  slow,  indolent,  adorable  smile  which  had 
made  all  Inch  and  the  men  at  the  mines  his 
friends. 

"If  you  feel  that  way  about  it,  my 
friend — "  he  said,  and  leaned  forward  and 
added  something,  his  hand  outstretched. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  81 

The  man  nodded,  shook  the  hand,  and  went 
to  his  ticket  rack.  The  Inger  wrote  out  a 
message  to  his  father,  instructing  him  to  pay 
to  the  agent  a  sum  which  he  named ;  and  to 
his  bank  he  scribbled  and  posted  a  brief  note. 
Then  as  the  train  pulled  in,  he  turned  back 
to  where  Lory  waited. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  told  her.  "Everything's 
all  right,"  he  added  jubilantly.  "Come  on  !" 

Beside  the  train  she  would  have  taken  his 
hand,  but  he  followed  her.  "I'm  coming  in," 
he  said  brusquely,  and  in  the  coach  sat  down 
beside  her  in  her  seat. 

Then  she  turned  to  him,  and  in  her 
voice  were  the  tremor  and  the  breathlessness 
which  had  been  there  for  an  instant  when, 
in  the  morning,  she  had  tried  to  say  her 
thanks : 

"I  wish't  I  could  thank  you,"  she  said.  "  I 
wish'tlcould!" 

He  met  her  eyes,  and  he  longed  inexpressibly 
for  a  way  of  speech  which  should  say  the 
thing  that  he  meant  to  try  to  say. 


82  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"You  know,  don't  you,"  he  asked  awk 
wardly,  "that  I'd  do  anything  to  make  up  — " 

"Don't,"  she  begged.  "I  know.  Don't 
you  think  I  don't  know." 

With  this  his  courage  mounted. 

"Tell  me,"  he  burst  out.  "Will  you  tell 
me  ?  Am  I  different  —  ain't  I  different  — 
from  the  way  you  thought?" 

It  was  blind  enough,  but  she  seemed  to 
understand. 

"You've  treated  me  whiter  to-day  than  I've 
ever  been  treated,"  she  said,  very  low.  "Now 
good-bye!" 

The  Inger  sat  silent,  but  in  his  face  came 
light,  as  if  back  upon  him  were  that  which 
she  had  kindled  there  in  the  hut,  by  her  trust 
in  him,  and  as  if  it  were  not  again  to  darken. 
The  train  began  to  move,  and  he  sat  there 
and  did  not  heed  it. 

"  Good-bye  —  oh,  good-bye  ! "  she  said. 
"We're  going!" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we're  going!  I  donno 
what  you'll  say  —  I  got  me  a  ticket  too." 


IT  was  black  dawn  when  Lory  and  the  Inger 
reached  Chicago.  Not  the  gray  dawn  that 
he  had  sometimes  known  slipping  down  the 
sides  of  the  canons;  not  the  red  dawn  that 
had  drawn  him  to  his  hut  door  to  face  upward 
to  the  flaming  sky,  and  had  sent  him  naked 
and  joyous,  into  the  pool  of  the  mountain 
stream ;  and  not  the  occasional  white  dawn, 
which  had  left  him  silent  on  his  shelf  of  White- 
face,  staring  at  the  flare  of  silver  in  the  east, 
and  afterward  letting  fall  into  his  skillet 
bacon  and  dripping  —  but  without  thinking 
of  bacon  and  dripping  at  all. 

There  in  the  railway  sheds  this  Chicago 
dawn  had  no  red,  no  white,  no  gray.  It  was 
merely  a  thinning  of  the  dark,  so  that  the 
station  lamps  began  to  be  unnecessary.  In 
this  strange  chill  air  of  day,  the  men  and 
women  dropped  from  the  Overland,  and 

88 


84  HEART'S  KINDRED 

streamed  steadfastly  away,  each  in  an  incredible 
faith  of  destination.  And  from  invisible  sources 
there  came  those  creeping  gases  which  are  slaves 
to  man,  but  fasten  upon  his  throat  like  hands, 
and  press  and  twist,  and  take  their  toll  of  him. 

Lory  looked  up  at  the  Inger  questioningly : 

"Had  it  ought  to  be  like  this,"  she  asked, 
"or  is  something  happening?" 

"Seems  as  if  something  must  be  happen 
ing,"  he  answered. 

They  went  into  the  street,  and  the  Inger 
took  from  her  the  slip  of  paper  on  which  was 
written  her  aunt's  address.  He  held  it  out 
to  the  first  man  he  saw,  to  the  second,  to  the 
third,  and  each  one  answered  him  with  much 
pointing,  in  a  broken  tongue  which  was  in 
distinguishable,  and  hurried  on.  Lory  looked 
at  the  stream  of  absorbed,  leaden  faces  of 
those  tramping  to  their  work,  heard  their 
speech  as  they  passed,  and  turned  a  startled 
face  to  the  Inger : 

"I  never  thought  of  it,"  she  said.  "Mebbe 
they  don't  talk  American,  East?" 


HEART'S  KINDRED  85 

"They  won't  stop  for  us/' said  the  Inger. 
"That's  all." 

From  one  or  two  others  they  caught  "  South," 
"Kedzie,"  "Indiana  Avenue."  Some  frankly 
shook  their  heads  with  "From  th'  old  coun 
try."  No  officer  was  in  sight,  and  it  occurred 
to  neither  of  them  to  look  for  one.  They 
merely  instinctively  threw  themselves  on  the 
stream  of  those  others  whom  they  took  to  be 
like  themselves. 

Abruptly  the  Inger  set  down  his  pack  in  the 
middle  of  the  walk,  and  advanced  upon  the 
first  man  whom  he  saw.  On  both  shoulders 
of  this  one  he  brought  down  his  hands  with 
the  grasp  of  a  Titan.  Also  he  shook  him 
slightly : 

"You  tell  me  how  to  get  to  where  I'm  goin' 
or  I'll  lamm  the  lights  out  of  you  !"  he  roared. 

The  man  —  a  young  timekeeper  whose 
work  took  him  out  earlier,  so  to  speak,  than 
his  station  —  regarded  the  Inger  in  alarm. 

"Lord  Heavens,"  the  young  timekeeper 
said,  "how  do  I  know  where  you're  goin'  ?" 


86  HEART'S  KINDRED 

Still  grasping  him  with  one  hand,  the  Inger 
opened  the  other  and  shook  Lory's  paper  in 
the  man's  face. 

"That's  where,"  he  said.  "Now  do  you 
know?" 

The  man  looked  right  and  left  and  took  the 
paper,  on  which  the  Inger's  fingers  did  not 
loosen. 

"Well,  get  on  an  Indiana  Avenue  car  and 
transfer,"  he  said.  "Anybody  could  tell  you 
that." 

"Where?"  yelled  the  Inger.  "Where  is 
that  car?" 

A  crowd  was  gathering,  and  the  clerk  in 
clined  to  jest  by  way  of  discounting  that 
disconcerting  clutch  on  his  shoulder. 

"Depends  on  which  one  you  catch — "  he 
was  beginning,  but  the  Inger,  with  his  one 
hand,  shook  him  deliberately  and  mightily : 

" Where?"  he  said.  "And  none  of  your 
lip  about  north  or  south !  Point  your  finger. 
Where?" 

It  was  at  that  minute  that  the  young  time- 


HEART'S  KINDRED  87 

keeper  caught  sight  of  Lory.  She  had  pressed 
forward,  and  she  stood  with  the  Inger's  pack 
on  the  ground  at  her  feet,  and  her  own  on  her 
shoulder.  She  was,  of  course,  still  hatless, 
but  she  had  knotted  upon  her  head  a  scarlet 
handkerchief;  and  in  that  dull  air,  her  hair 
and  face,  under  their  cap  of  color,  bloomed 
exquisitely.  The  man,  having  stared  at  her 
for  a  moment,  and  at  that  strange  luggage 
of  theirs,  took  out  his  watch : 

"Come  along,"  he  said  curtly.  "I'll  put 
you  on  your  car." 

The  Inger  searched  his  face.  "No  tricks ?" 
he  demanded.  Then,  swiftly,  he  released  his 
hold.  "Obliged  to  ye,"  he  said,  and  picked 
up  his  pack  and  followed. 

They  slipped  on  the  black  stones,  breasted 
the  mass  waiting  to  board  the  same  car,  and 
somehow  found  a  foothold.  Already  there 
was  no  seat.  The  patient  crowd  herded  in 
the  aisles.  Elated  with  the  success  of  his 
method,  the  Inger  looked  round  at  the 
seated  men,  screened  by  newspapers,  then 


88  HEART'S  KINDRED 

reached  out  to  the  nearest  one,  slipped  his 
hand  in  his  collar,  and  jerked  him  to  his  feet. 

The  man  whirled  on  him  in  amazement  and 
then  in  a  wrath  which  reddened  his  face  to 
fever.  But  for  a  breath  he  hesitated  before 
the  sheer  bulk  of  the  Inger. 

"You'll  be  locked  up  by  dark,"  he  said 
only,  "7  don't  need  to  get  you." 

He  treated  himself  to  a  deliberate,  luxurious 
look  at  Lory,  leaned  negligently  against  the 
shoulder  of  the  man  seated  nearest,  and  went 
back  to  his  newspaper. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  one  should  ride 
for  an  hour  on  a  street  car  to  get  anywhere. 
At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  the  Inger  had  gone 
back  to  the  platform  and : 

"Say,"  he  said.  "We  wasn't  goin'  in  the 
country,  you  know." 

The  conductor  went  on  counting  transfers. 

"Say  — "  the  Inger  went  on,  slightly  louder, 
and  the  man  glanced  up  imperturbably. 

"I  says  I'd  leave  you  off,  didn't  I?"  he 
demanded.  "It's  ten  mile  yet." 


HEART'S  KINDRED  89 

Ten  miles !  The  Inger  stood  by  Lory  and 
looked  at  the  streets.  Amazing  piles  of  dirty 
masonry,  highways  of  dirty  stone,  processions 
of  carts,  armies  of  people. 

"He  lied,"  he  thought.  "They  couldn't 
keep  it  up  for  ten  miles." 

When  at  last  the  two  were  set  down,  it  was 
on  one  of  those  vast,  treeless  stretches  outside 
Chicago,  where  completed  sidewalks  cut  the 
uncompleted  lengths  of  sand  and  coarse  grass, 
and  where  an  occasional  house  stands  out 
like  a  fungus  —  as  quickly  evolved  as  a  fungus, 
too,  and  almost  as  parti-colored.  But  these 
open  spaces  the  two  hailed  in  thanksgiving. 

The  Inger  dropped  his  pack  and  stretched 
mightily. 

"What'd  they  want  to  go  and  muss  up  the 
earth  for?"  he  said.  "It's  good  enough  for 
me,  naked." 

The  girl  footed  beside  him,  looking  every 
where  in  wonder.  Her  scarlet  handkerchief 
cap  had  slipped  sidewise  on  her  hair  which  was 
loosened  and  fallen  on  her  neck.  Her  dress, 


90  HEART'S  KINDRED 

of  some  rough  brown,  was  scant  and  short, 
and  it  was  tight  on  her  full  arms  and  bosom, 
beneath  a  little  blue  knit  shawl  that  had  been 
her  mother's.  But  she  was  as  lovely  here  as 
ever  she  had  been  in  the  desert  and  on  White- 
face.  And  as  soon  as  they  were  alone,  the 
Inger  always  fell  silent,  with  the  perpetual 
sense  of  trying  to  understand. 

The  days  on  the  train  had  not  left  them 
as  their  meeting  had  found  them.  There  had 
been  hours,  side  by  side,  drawing  over  the 
burning  yellow  and  rose  of  their  desert ;  and 
over  the  flat  emptiness  and  fulness  of  Kan 
sas  ;  nights  on  the  rear  platform,  close  to  the 
rail,  so  that  the  overhead  lights  should  not 
extinguish  the  stars;  hours  when  the  train 
waited  for  a  bridge  to  be  mended,  and  they 
had  walked  on  the  prairie,  and  secretly  had 
been  homesick  for  the  friendly  huddling 
shapes  against  the  horizons.  To  the  Inger, 
with  the  Flagpole  for  his  background,  the 
luxury  of  a  Pullman  had  occurred  no  more 
than  to  Lory.  It  was  a  way  for  some  folk  to 


HEART'S  KINDRED  91 

ride,  as  diamonds  were  for  certain  folk  to 
buy.  But  as  for  them,  they  had  sat  in  the 
day-coach,  and  at  night  had  laid  their  heads 
on  their  packs,  as  simply  as  they  had  eaten 
the  remains  of  their  lunch,  and  of  food 
snatched  at  station  counters. 

And  all  the  way,  he  had  been  trying  to 
understand.  She  was  very  gentle  with  him  — 
sometimes  he  felt  as  if  she  were  almost  pity 
ing.  Always  she  seemed  the  elder.  How 
was  it  possible,  he  wondered,  that  she  could 
be  to  him  like  this  ? 

For  in  these  days  he  had  come  to  under 
stand  her,  with  a  man's  curiously  clear 
understanding  of  a  "  good  "  woman.  He  knew 
the  crystal  candor  of  her,  the  wholesomeness, 
the  humanness,  and,  for  all  her  merriment 
and  her  charm  and  her  comradeship,  the  ex 
quisite  aloofness  of  her,  a  quality  as  strange 
in  Jem  Moor's  daughter  as  it  was  unusual  in 
any  womanhood  of  Inch.  But,  these  things 
being  so,  how  was  it  possible  that  she  could 
tolerate  him?  She  could  not  have  forgiven 


92  HEART'S  KINDRED 

him  —  that  was  unthinkable,  and,  he  dimly 
felt,  undesirable.  How  then  could  she  be  to 
him  so  gentle,  so  genuinely  human  ? 

Of  exactly  what  had  occurred  that  night  on 
Whiteface,  he  could  not  be  sure.  He  wearied 
himself,  trying  to  remember  what  he  had 
said,  what  he  had  done.  Of  one  thing  he  was 
certain :  he  had  not  laid  his  hands  on  her. 
That  he  should  have  remembered,  and  that, 
he  knew,  she  would  not  have  let  pass  by 
as  she  was  letting  memory  of  that  night 
pass.  Yet  it  was  the  same  thing,  for  he 
had  tried.  What,  then,  exactly,  was  she 
thinking  ? 

These  things  he  did  not  cease  to  turn  in  his 
mind.  And  bit  by  bit  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  understood  :  for  at  first,  on  the  mountain, 
she  had  needed  him.  Without  him  she  could 
not  have  followed  that  imperceptible  trail. 
Then,  here  on  the  train,  she  was  deeply  his 
debtor,  as  he  had  forced  her  to  be.  What 
ever,  in  her  heart,  she  was  thinking  of  him, 
she  could  not  now  reveal  to  him.  Indeed  how 


HEART'S  KINDRED  93 

was  it  possible  that  she  did  not  despise  him  ? 
So,  as  she  had  sat  beside  him  on  the  Over 
land,  he  had  been  torturing  himself. 

Yet  never  once  did  her  gentleness  to  him 
fail.  There  was,  in  her  manner  now,  as  she 
spoke  to  him,  something  of  this  incomparable 
care : 

"Will  you  do  something?"  she  said,  look 
ing  away  from  him. 

"If  it's  for  you,  I  reckon  you  can  reckon 
on  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  donno  who  it's  for,"  she  told  him.  "  But 
will  you  be  just  as  nice  to  my  uncle  as  you  are 
tome?" 

He  stared  at  her. 

"Be  kind  of  polite  to  him,"  she  said. 
"Don't  pull  your  revolver  on  him,"  she 
explained. 

"I  hardly  ever  pull  my  revolver,"  he 
defended  himself  indignantly. 

"Well,  don't  shake  him  or  —  or  lift  him 
up  by  the  collar  for  anything,"  she  sug 
gested. 


94  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"Oh,"  he  comprehended.  "You  want  me 
to  trot  out  my  Chicago  manners  —  is  that  it  ? 
He  laughed.  "All  right,"  he  said.  "I'm  on." 

"Uncle  Hiram  is  good,"  she  cried  earnestly. 
"He  come  to  see  us,  once  —  he's  good! 
You  treat  him  right  —  please." 

The  Inger  sunk  his  chin  on  his  chest  and 
walked,  mulling  this.  So  she  hadn't  liked 
his  way  with  folks !  He  felt  vaguely  uneasy, 
and  as  if  he  had  stumbled  on  some  unsus 
pected  standard  of  hers. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  troubled,  "what 
Aunt  'Cretia's  goin'  to  think.  I  mean  about 
your  coming  with  me." 

He  raised  his  head. 

"What  about  me  coming  with  you?"  he 
demanded. 

Before  the  clear  candor  of  his  eyes,  her 
own  fell. 

"She'll  think  the  truth,"  he  blazed,  "or 
I'll  burn  the  house  down!" 

At  this  they  both  laughed,  and  now  it  was 
she  who  was  feeling  a  dim  shame,  as  if  from 


HEART'S  KINDRED  95 

some  high  standard  of  his,  she  had  been  the 
one  to  vary. 

At  the  intersection  of  two  paved  roads, 
whose  sidewalks  were  grass-grown,  in  their 
long  waiting  for  footsteps,  stood  the  house 
which  they  had  been  seeking.  It  was  of 
dullish  blue  clapboards  whose  gabled  ends 
were  covered  with  red-brown  toothed  shingles. 
The  house  was  too  high  for  its  area,  and  a 
hideous  porch  of  cement  blocks  and  posts 
looked  like  a  spreading  cow-catcher.  On 
a  clothes  line,  bed  blankets  and  colored 
quilts  were  flapping,  as  if  they  were  re 
joicing  in  their  one  legitimate  liberty  from 
privacy. 

Everywhere,  on  the  porch,  and  on  the 
scrubby  lawn,  and  within  the  open  door, 
stood  packing  boxes.  The  leap  of  alarm 
which  Lory  felt  at  sight  of  them  was  not 
allayed  by  the  unknown  woman  in  blue 
calico,  with  swathed  head,  who  bent  over 
the  box  in  the  hall. 

At  Lory's  question,  the  woman  stared. 


96  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"You  mean  the  family  that's  just  went  out 
of  here?"  she  asked.  "Well,  they've  moved 
to  Washington,  D.C." 

"What's  that?"  cried  the  Inger,  suddenly. 

"If  you  mean  the  family  that's  just  went 
out  of  here — "  the  woman  was  beginning. 

The  Inger  struck  his  hand  sharply  on  the 
post. 

"We  mean  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hiram  Folts," 
he  shouted.  "And  if  you're  trying  to  be 
insulting  — " 

The  woman  looked  at  him,  open-mouthed. 

"Why,  my  land,"  she  said,  "I  never  heard 
their  names  in  my  life.  I  just  happened  to 
know  the  family  moved  to  Washington. 
You  better  ask  next  door  —  mebbe  they 
knew  'em." 

Lory  interposed,  thanked  her,  got  back  to 
the  street. 

"S'posin'  she  was  puttin'  on,"  she  urged. 
"It  don't  hurt  us  any." 

"Puttin'  on,"  raged  the  Inger.  "Well,  I 
should  say.  Pretendin'  not  to  know  the 


HEART'S  KINDRED  97 

name  of  whoever  moved  out  of  the  same 
house  she's  movin'  into ! " 

It  was  true,  the  neighbor  told  them.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hiram  Folts  had  been  gone  for 
almost  a  month.  She  found  the  Washington 
address  for  them,  and  in  a  moment  they  were 
back  on  the  Illinois  prairie  again,  with  grass- 
grown  sidewalks  leading  them  nowhere. 

"I  must  look  for  a  job,"  Lory  said,  only. 
"I  must  begin  now  and  look  for  a  job." 

The  Inger's  look  travelled  over  the  waste 
stretches,  cut  by  neat  real  estate  signs.  The 
sun  was  struggling  through  a  high  fog,  the  sky 
was  murky,  and  on  the  horizon  where  Chicago 
lay,  the  black  smoke  hung  like  storm  clouds. 

"What  a  devil  of  a  hole,"  he  said.  "It 
looks  like  something  had  swelled  up  big,  and 
bust,  and  scattered  all  over  the  place." 

"I  donno  how  to  look  for  a  job,"  Lory 
said  only,  staring  toward  that  black  horizon 
cloud  where  lay  the  city. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  go  on  to  Washington  ?  " 
the  Inger  asked  casually. 


98  HEART'S  KINDRED 

Lory  shook  her  head. 

"I  can't,"  she  said.  "An'  I  ain't  goin'  to 
come  down  on  to  you  again." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  and  for  the  first 
time  since  they  had  boarded  the  Overland, 
he  saw  the  hunted  look  in  her  eyes.  She  was 
turning  toward  the  City  with  exactly  the 
look  with  which  she  had  turned,  over  shoulder, 
toward  Inch  and  Bunchy. 

.  .  .  He  looked  at  her  bright  fallen  hair, 
at  the  white  curve  of  her  throat,  at  the  strong 
brown  hand  with  which  she  held  her  pack 
that  she  steadfastly  refused  to  let  him  carry. 
Here  she  was,  remote  from  all  the  places  and 
people  that  she  had  ever  known.  Here  she 
was,  almost  penniless.  He  thought  of  her 
bright  insolence  as  she  had  sat  his  horse  that 
morning  on  the  desert,  of  her  breathless 
appeal  to  him  in  the  dark  of  his  hut,  of  her 
self-sufficiency  in  the  night  of  his  cowardice 
and  failure.  .  .  .  Now  here  she  was,  haunted 
by  another  fear. 

In  the  days  of  their  comradeship,  he  had 


HEART'S  KINDRED  99 

felt  in  her  presence  shame,  humility,  the 
desire  to  protect;  and  passion,  steadfastly 
put  down  by  the  memory  of  that  night  for 
which  he  was  trying  desperately  to  make 
amends.  But  never  till  that  moment  had  he 
felt  for  her  a  flash  of  tenderness.  Now  — 
it  must  have  been  the  brown  hand  nearest 
him,  on  her  pack,  which  so  moved  him  — 
he  felt  a  great  longing  just  to  give  her  com 
fort  and  strength  and  a  moment  of  cherish 
ing. 

She  looked  up  at  him.  And  abruptly,  and 
with  no  warning,  it  seemed  to  the  Inger  as 
they  walked  there  together,  and  he  looking 
down  at  her,  that  he  was  she.  He  seemed  to 
move  as  she  moved,  to  be  breathing  as  she 
breathed,  to  be  looking  from  her  eyes  at  that 
storm-cloud  of  a  city  lying  in  wait  for  her. 
For  an  instant  of  time,  he  seemed  to  cease  to 
exist  of  himself,  and  to  be  wholly  Lory.  Then 
she  looked  away,  and  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the 
flat  green  and  brown,  and  was  striding  on, 
himself  again. 


100  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"I  never  thought  of  it  before,"  he  burst 
out.  "It  is  a  job  to  be  a  woman.  And  alone 
in  Chicago  —  Lord  ! " 

Her  look  flashed  back  at  him. 

"I  can  get  along  just  as  well  there,  or  any 
where  else,  as  you  can,"  she  challenged. 

Going  back  on  the  car,  he  argued  it  with 
her.  Why  should  they  not  go  on  to  Wash 
ington.  His  bank  was  to  telegraph  him 
funds  —  these  were  probably  waiting  for  him 
now.  Why  should  she  not  find  work  with  her 
aunt,  in  Washington  as  well  as  in  Chicago  — 
and  be  that  much  farther  from  Bunchy  in 
the  bargain  ? 

She  listened,  imperturbably  bought  a  news 
paper,  and  looked  out  an  employment  agency; 
and  ended  by  being  left  at  the  agency  while 
the  Inger  went  off  to  the  telegraph  office. 

He  had  gone  but  a  step  or  two  when  he 
felt  her  touch  on  his  arm. 

"And  oh,  listen  !"  she  said.  "If  the  money 
ain't  come,  don't  kill  the  man!" 

He   laughed,    a   great   ringing   laugh   that 


HEART'S  KINDRED  101 

made  the  passers-by  on  JWM>ash;  Aveivte  look 
amusedly  after  him!  rf, lxen:  lie  :st*odfe  off 
among  them.  At  intervals,  all  the  way  to 
the  telegraph  office,  he  cursed  the  town. 
The  noise  confused  him,  the  smoke  blinded 
and  choked  him,  he  understood  nobody's 
talk  of  "east"  and  "west."  Unmercifully  he 
jostled  people  who  got  in  his  way,  and  he 
pushed  by  them,  unmindful  of  remonstrance. 
At  a  corner  a  traffic  policeman  roared  out  at 
him  to  halt.  He  stared  at  the  officer,  then 
leaped  on  the  running  board  of  a  motor  that 
was  making  a  left-hand  turn,  and  dropped 
off  on  the  other  side  of  the  causeway. 

"Get  a  grown  man's  job,  little  fellow!"  he 
yelled  in  derision. 

He  could  find  neither  the  signs  nor  the 
numbers.  The  beat  of  the  traffic  made 
indistinguishable  the  voices  of  those  who 
tried  to  reply  to  his  questions.  To  the  fifth 
or  sixth  man  whom  he  sought  to  understand, 
he  roared  out  in  a  terrible  voice : 

"My  Lord,  haven't  you  got  any  lungs?" 


102  HEART'S  KINDRED 

The  man  fled./  The  Inger  tramped  on,  to 
a  chant: which  was  growing  in  his  soul: 

"Give  me  Inch.  Give  me  Inch.  Give  me 
Inch  .  .  ." 

But  by  the  time  he  had  gained  the  tel 
egraph  office,  and  the  man  at  the  window, 
after  long  delay,  had  told  him  that  identifi 
cation  would  be  necessary  before  he  could 
collect  his  money,  the  Inger's  mood  had 
changed.  He  stood  before  the  window  and 
broke  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"Identify  me!"  he  said.  "Me!  Why, 
man,  I'm  Inger.  I  own  the  Flagpole  mine. 
I  just  got  here,  from  Inch,  Balboa  County. 
You  might  as  well  try  to  identify  the  West 
coast.  Look  at  me,  you  fool!" 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Inger,"  said  the  man, 
respectfully.  "You'll  have  to  bring  some 
body  here  who  knows  you.  A  resident." 

"There  ain't  a  resident  of  nothing  this  side 
the  Rockies  that  ever  laid  eyes  to  me,"  said 
the  Inger.  'You  guess  twice." 

The  clerk  meditated. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  103 

"Haven't  you  got  your  name  on  something 
about  you?"  he  said  softly. 

The  Inger  thought.  He  rarely  had  a  letter, 
he  never  carried  one.  He  had  never  in  his 
life  owned  a  business  card  or  an  embroidered 
initial.  Suddenly  his  face  cleared. 

"You  bet!"  he  cried,  and  drew  his  six- 
shooter,  which  the  men  at  the  mines  had 
given  him,  and  levelled  it  through  the  bars. 

"There's  my  name  on  the  handle,"  he  said. 
"Want  I  should  fire,  just  to  prove  it's  mine  ?" 

The  man  hesitated,  glanced  once  about 
the  office,  looked  in  the  Inger's  eyes,  —  and 
risked  his  job. 

"That'll  be  sufficient,"  said  he.  "But  if 
you'll  allow  me,  you'd  best  cover  that  thing 
up." 

"I  donno,"  said  the  Inger,  reflectively, 
"but  I'd  best  shoot  my  way  down  State 
Street.  I  don't  seem  to  get  along  very  fast 
any  other  way." 

He  had  one  more  visit  to  make.  This  was 
to  a  railway  ticket  office,  where  he  deliberately 


104  HEART'S  KINDRED 

made  a  purchase  and  took  away  a  time-card. 
Then  he  returned  to  the  employment  office. 

There  he  faced  a  curious  sight.  The 
outer  room  was  small  and  squalid  with  its 
bare,  dirty  floor,  its  discolored  walls,  the 
dusty,  curtainless  panes  of  its  one  window 
which  looked  in  on  a  dingy  court.  About 
the  edge  of  the  room,  either  seated  on  deal 
benches  without  backs,  or  standing  by  the 
wall,  were  perhaps  twenty  women.  They 
were  old,  they  were  young,  they  were  relaxed 
and  hopeless,  or  tense  and  strained  —  but 
the  most  of  them  were  middle-aged  and 
shabby  and  utterly  negligible.  They  had 
not  the  character  of  the  defeated  or  the  ill  or 
the  wretched.  They  were  simply  drained  of 
life,  and  were  living.  Occasionally  an  inner 
door  opened  and  a  man's  voice  called  "Next." 
Few  of  the  women  talked.  One  or  two  of 
them  slept.  The  window  was  closed  and  the 
air  was  intolerable. 

To  all  this  it  took  the  Inger  a  moment  or 
two  to  accustom  his  eyes.  Then  he  saw 


HEART'S  KINDRED  105 

Lory.  She  was  sitting  on  her  pack,  on  the 
floor,  amusing  a  fretting  baby  on  the  knees 
of  its  mother,  who  dozed.  In  that  dun  place, 
the  girl's  loveliness  was  startling,  electric. 
The  women  felt  it,  and  some  sat  staring  at  her. 

"If  I  had  that  face  — "  he  caught  from  one. 

"Come  along  out  of  this,  for  the  Lord's 
sake!"  said  the  Inger. 

They  all  turned  toward  him  and  toward 
Lory  as  she  rose,  crimsoning  as  they  looked  at 
her.  She  went  to  the  doorway  where  he  stood. 

"I'll  lose  my  turn  if  I  come  now,"  sh'e  said. 

He  held  her  wrist  and  drew  her  into  the 
hall.  Other  women  were  waiting  to  get  into 
the  room.  Well-dressed,  watching  men  went 
and  came. 

uYou  come  with  me,"  said  the  Inger. 

"But  — •"  she  tried  to  say. 

"You  come  along  with  me,"  he  repeated. 
And  as  her  troubled  look  questioned  him : 

"I've  got  two  tickets  to  Washington,"  he 
said.  "You  don't  want  no  job  here  if  you 
get  one." 


106  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"You  hadn't  ought — "she  began,  breath 
lessly. 

"I  know  it,"  he  told  her.  "What  I'd 
ought  to  'a'  done  was  to  get  two  tickets  to 
Whiteface  and  the  hut.  Hadn't  I  ?  " 

The  baby,  deserted,  began  to  cry  weakly. 
Lory  turned  back  to  her,  stooped  over  her, 
comforted  her.  As  he  stood  there,  leaning 
in  the  doorway,  once  more  there  came  to  the 
Inger  that  curiously  sharp  sense  of  the  morn 
ing  on  the  prairie. 

For  a  flash  as  he  looked  at  those  empty 
faces  and  worn  figures,  he  knew  —  positively 
and  as  at  first  hand  —  what  it  was  to  be,  not 
Lory  alone  now,  but  all  the  rest.  Abruptly, 
with  some  great  wrench  of  the  understanding, 
it  was  almost  as  if  momentarily  he  were  those 
other  wretched  creatures.  When  Lory  had 
brought  her  pack  and  joined  him,  he  stood 
for  a  moment,  still  staring  into  that  room. 

"My  God,"  he  said.  "I  wish  I  could  do 
something  for  'em!" 

He  struggled  with  this. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  107 

"'Seems  as  if  it'd  help  if  I'd  canter  in  and 
shoot  every  one  of  'em  dead/'  he  said. 

They  went  out  on  the  street  again,  intent 
on  finding  a  place  to  lunch.  There  were  two 
hours  until  the  Washington  train  left.  The 
Inger  refusing  utterly  to  ask  anybody  any 
thing,  they  walked  until  they  came  to  a  place 
which,  by  hot  flapjacks  in  the  making  in  the 
great  window,  the  Inger  loudly  recognized  to 
be  his  own. 

Seated  at  a  little  white  oil-cloth  covered 
table  beneath  which  the  Inger  insisted  on 
stowing  the  packs,  the  two  relaxed  in  that 
moment  of  rest  and  well-being. 

The  Inger,  seeing  her  there  across  from  him, 
spoke  out  in  a  kind  of  wonder. 

"It  seems  like  I  can't  remember  the  time 
when  you  wasn't  along,"  he  said. 

She  laughed  —  and  it  was  pathetic  to  see 
how  an  interval  of  comfort  and  quiet  warmed 
her  back  to  security  and  girlishness.  But 
not  to  the  remotest  coquetry.  Of  that, 


108  HEART'S  KINDRED 

since  the  morning  on  the  desert,  he  had  had 
in  her  no  glimpse.  By  this  he  knew  dimly 
all  that  he  had  forfeited.  He  made  wistful 
attempts  to  call  forth  even  a  shadow  of  her 
old  way. 

"A  week  ago,"  he  said,  "I  hardly  knew 
you." 

She  assented  gravely,  and  found  no  more 
to  say  about  it. 

"A  week  ago,"  he  said,  "I  was  fishing,  and 
didn't  bring  home  nothin'  but  a  turtle."  He 
smiled  at  a  recollection.  "I  was  scrapin' 
him  out,"  he  said,  "when  I  heard  your 
weddin'  bell.  How'd  you  ever  come  to  have 
a  weddin'  bell?"  he  wondered. 

"It  was  Bunchy's  doing,"  she  said,  list 
lessly.  "He  sent  the  priest  a  case  o'  some- 
thin',  to  have  it  rung.  I  hated  it." 

"Well,"  said  the  Inger,  "it  was  Bunchy's 
own  rope,  then,  that  hung  him.  I  shouldn't 
have  come  down  if  I  hadn't  heard  the  bell  — " 
he  paused  perplexed.  "You  didn't  know  I 
was  down  there,  though?"  he  said. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  109 

"No,  I  thought  you'd  be  up  on  the  moun 
tain  when  I  went  up.  I  didn't  think  you'd 
be  in  town.  You  hardly  ever,"  she  added, 
"did  come  down." 

He  did  not  miss  this :  she  had  noticed, 
then,  that  he  hardly  ever  came  down. 

"When  I  did  come,"  he  said,  "I  always 
saw  you  with  Bunchy.  Only  that  once." 

"Only  that  once,"  she  assented,  and  did 
not  meet  his  eyes.  "Oh !"  she  cried,  "I'll  be 
glad  when  we  get  to  Washington  and  I'm  off 
your  hands!  That's  why  I  wanted  a  job 
here  —  to  be  off  your  hands !" 

On  this  the  Inger  was  stabbed  through 
with  his  certainty.  It  was  true,  then.  She 
was  longing  to  be  free  of  him  —  and  no 
wonder!  To  hide  his  hurt  and  his  chagrin 
he  turned  to  the  waiter,  who  was  arriving 
with  flapjacks,  and  lifted  candidly  inquiring 
eyes. 

"See  anything  the  matter  with  my  hands  ?" 
he  drawled. 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  man,  in  surprise. 


110  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"Well,  neither  do  I,"  said  the  Inger. 
"What  is  the  matter  with  'em  ? "  he  demanded 
of  Lory,  as  the  man  departed. 

"Why,  if  it  wasn't  for  me  on  'em,"  said 
Lory,  "you'd  be  starting  for  war." 

War !  The  Inger  heard  the  word  in  aston 
ishment.  That  was  so,  he  had  been  going  to 
the  war.  He  had  been  bent  on  going  to  the 
war,  and  had  so  announced  his  intention. 
In  that  day  on  the  mountain,  those  days 
on  the  train,  these  hours  in  the  city,  he  had 
never  once  thought  of  war.  He  flooded  his 
flapjacks  with  syrup,  and  said  nothing. 

"Washington  ain't  much  out  of  your  way," 
she  added.  "You  can  get  started  by  day 
after  to-morrow  anyway." 

Still  he  was  silent.  Then,  feeling  that 
something  was  required  of  him,  he  observed 
nonchalantly : 

"Well,  we  don't  have  to  talk  about  it 
now,  as  I  know  of." 

In  this,  however,  he  reckoned  without  his 
host  of  the  restaurant.  As  the  Inger  paid 


HEART'S  KINDRED  111 

the  bill,  there  was  thrust  in  his  hands  a  white 
poster,  printed  in  great  letters : 

GIANT  MASS   MEETING 

THE  COLISEUM 

TO-NIGHT !    TO-NIGHT !     TO-NIGHT ! 

WHAT  IS  AMERICA 

TO  DO 
IN   THE   PRESENT  CRISIS 

The  Inger  read  it  through  twice. 

"What  crisis?"  he  asked. 

The  restaurant  keeper  —  a  man  with  meet 
ing  eyebrows,  who  looked  as  if  he  had  just 
sipped  something  acid  —  stopped  counting 
change  in  piles,  and  stared  at  him. 

"Where  you  from?"  he  asked,  and  saw  the 
packs,  and  added  "Boat,  eh?  Ain't  you 
heard  about  the  vessel?" 

The  Inger  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  man,"  said  the  restaurant  keeper 
with  enjoyment,  "another  nice  big  U.  S. 


HEART'S  KINDRED 

merchantman  is  blowed  into  flinders  a  couple 
o'  days  ago,  a-sailin'  neutral  seas.  Nobody 
much  killed,  I  guess  —  but  leave  'em  wait 
and  see  what  we  give  'em !" 

"Does  it  mean  war?"  asked  the  Inger, 
eagerly. 

"That's  for  the  meetin'  to  say,"  said  the 
man,  and  winked,  and,  still  winking,  reached 
for  somebody's  pink  check. 

The  Inger  turned  to  Lory  with  eyes  alight. 

"Let's  get  a  train  in  the  night,"  he  said. 
"Let's  stay  here  for  this  meeting." 

In  the  circumstances,  there  was  nothing 
that  she  could  well  say  against  this.  She 
nodded.  The  Inger  consulted  his  time 
table,  found  a  train  toward  morning,  and 
the  thing  was  done.  He  left  the  place  like 
a  boy. 

"Let's  see  some  of  this  Mouth  o'  the  Pit 
this  afternoon,"  he  said,  "being  we're  here. 
And  then  we'll  head  for  that  war  meet 
ing.  It's  grand  we  got  here  for  it,"  he 
added. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  113 

Lory  looked  up  at  him  in  a  kind  of  fear. 
On  the  mountain  that  night  she  had  not  once 
really  feared  him.  But  here,  she  now  under 
stood,  was  a  man  with  whom,  in  their  days 
together,  she  had  after  all  never  yet  come 
face  to  face. 


VI 

THEY  sat  where  they  could  see  the  great 
audience  gather.  The  people  came  by  thou 
sands.  They  poured  in  the  aisles,  advanced, 
separated,  sifted  into  the  rows  of  seats, 
climbed  to  the  boxes,  the  galleries,  ranged 
along  those  sloping  floors  like  puppets.  The 
stage  filled.  There  were  men  and  women, 
young,  old,  clothed  in  a  mass  of  black  shot 
through  with  color.  Here  were  more  people 
than  ever  in  their  lives  Lory  or  the  Inger  had 
seen.  The  stage  alone  was  a  vast  audience 
hall. 

The  people  talked.  A  dull  roar  came  from 
them,  fed  by  voices,  by  shuffling  feet,  by  the 
moving  of  garments  and  papers  and  bodies. 
They  all  moved.  No  one  was  still.  The 
human  mass,  spread  so  thinly  in  the  hollow 
shell  of  the  hall,  moved  like  maggots. 

in 


HEART'S  KINDRED  115 

The  Inger  leaned  forward,  watching.  His 
eyes  were  lit  and  his  breath  quickened.  His 
huge  frame  obscured  the  outlook  of  a  little 
white-faced  youth  who  sat  beside  him,  con 
tinually  stroking  and  twisting  at  a  high  and 
small  moustache. 

"Sit  back,  sir,  can't  you?"  this  exasper 
ated  youth  finally  demanded. 

The  Inger,  his  hand  spread  massively  as  he 
leaned  on  his  leg,  tossed  him  a  glance,  over 
shoulder,  and  with  lifted  brows. 

"Why,  you  little  lizard,"  he  observed, 
only,  and  did  not  change  his  posture. 

A  group  of  men  and  women  in  evening 
clothes  sat  beside  Lory,  who  frankly  stared  at 
them.  One  of  the  women,  elderly,  pallidly 
powdered,  delicately  worn  down  by  long, 
scrupulous  care  of  her  person,  sat  with  one 
blue  and  boned  hand  in  evidence,  heavily 
clad  with  rings. 

"Look  at  the  white  bird's  claw,"  the 
Inger  said  suddenly.  "I'd  like  to  snap  it 
off  its  bloomin'  stem." 


116  HEART'S  KINDRED 

And  as  the  people  ceased  to  come  in,  and 
now  were  merely  sitting  there,  breathing, 
and  incredibly  alive,  he  suddenly  spoke  aloud  : 

"If  hundreds  of  'em  fell  dead  and  was 
dragged  out,"  he  said,  "we'd  never  know  the 
difference,  would  we?" 

Lory's  look  was  the  speculative  look  which 
always  embarrassed  him. 

"If  two  of  'em  was  us,  we  would,"  she  said. 

The  Inger  laughed  boisterously. 

"You  bet, —  then!"  he  agreed.  "Lord, 
ain't  it  grand  that  the  rest  of  'em  could  go,  for 
all  we  care!" 

She  pondered  it. 

"What  if  they  was  a  big  fire/'  she  said, 
"like  the  Hess  House?" 

The  Hess  House,  an  unsavory  place  of 
Inch,  had  burned  the  year  before,  and  with 
it  five  nameless  women. 

"Oh  gosh,"  said  the  Inger,  "you  could 
hand  'em  out  like  fish  off  the  coals,  and  save 
'em,  alive  and  kicking,  and  cord  'em  up 
somewheres,  and  rip  back  for  more." 


HEART'S  KINDRED  117 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Lory.  "  Why  would  you  do 
that  —  if  it  didn't  make  any  difference?" 

"Because  you'd  be  a  dub  if  you  didn't," 
he  replied  simply. 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute,  played  at  pick 
ing  her  up  in  his  arms,  holding  her,  hewing 
through  the  crowd,  trampling  them  out  of  the 
way,  and  as  he  went,  kissing  her  when  he 
pleased.  To  him  the  hall  dimmed  and  went 
out.  .  .  .  Then  he  heard  the  chairman  speak 
ing. 

The  chairman  was  a  man  of  thick  body  and 
bent  head,  with  watching  eyes,  and  a  mouth 
that  shut  as  a  fist  shuts.  His  voice  went 
over  the  hall  like  a  horn. 

The  meeting  had  been  called  because  some 
thing  must  be  done  —  something  must  be 
done.  The  war  had  dragged  on  until  the 
world  was  sucked.  Men,  women,  children, 
money,  arms,  cities,  nations,  were  heaped  on 
the  wreck.  The  wreck  was  the  world.  Some 
thing  must  be  done  —  something  must  be 
done.  In  all  the  earth  stood  only  one  great 


118  HEART'S  KINDRED 

nation,  untouched  of  carnage,  fat,  peopled  — 
and  peopled  with  sons  of  the  warring  world. 
This  meeting  had  been  called  because  some 
thing  must  be  done.  There  were  those  who 
had  come  to  tell  what  to  do. 

To  those  who  comprehended,  the  weight  of 
the  moment  lay  in  the  chaos  of  applause 
which  took  the  house.  The  air  of  the  place, 
languid,  silent,  casual,  for  all  that  one  ob 
served,  abruptly  solidified  and  snapped,  and 
flew  asunder.  In  its  place  leaped  something 
electric,  which  played  from  the  people  to  the 
speaker  who  came  first  to  his  place,  and  from 
him  back  to  the  people. 

This  man  began  to  speak  slowly.  He  was 
slow-moving,  slow  of  eyelid  and  of  glance, 
and  his  words  came  half  sleepily.  It  was  so 
that  he  told  them  about  themselves  :  Children 
of  those  who  had  come  to  America  for  escape, 
for  retreat,  for  a  place  of  self-expression.  Who 
had  sought  liberty,  free  schools,  manhood  suf 
frage,  womanhood  suffrage,  religious  freedom, 
and  had  found  some  of  these  and  were  seeking 


HEART'S  KINDRED  119 

more.  Picture  by  picture  he  showed  them  a 
country  which,  save  for  its  enduring  era  of  in 
dustrial  babyhood,  and  its  political  and  judicial 
error,  gave  them  richly  of  what  they  had 
sought,  developed  them,  fed  them,  comforted 
them.  A"place  of  plenty,  a  happy  paradise,  a 
walled  world,  he  pictured  theirs. 

In  the  same  sleepy,  casual  fashion,  he  went 
on :  Why  should  they  set  about  all  this  talk 
of  "something  must  be  done"?  This  was 
none  of  our  quarrel.  Perfectly,  by  this  time, 
we  recognized  its  causes  as  capitalistic  issues. 
If  they  chose  to  murder  one  another,  should 
we  add  terror  unto  terror  by  slaying  more, 
and  ourselves  ?  Why  ourselves  and  our  sons  ? 
Why  not  stay  soft  in  the  nest  we  had  made, 
while  men  of  the  soil  which  had  nourished  our 
fathers  called  to  us  vainly,  the  death  rattle  in 
their  throats?  Sigh  delicately  for  this  rattle 
of  death  in  millions  of  throats  and  fill  our  own 
with  the  fat  of  the  land  whose  prosperity  must 
not  be  imperilled.  Read  of  a  people  deci 
mated,  and  answer  by  filing  a  protest.  Pray 


120  HEART'S  KINDRED 

for  peace  incessantly,  beside  our  comfortable 
beds.  Read  of  atrocities  and  shudder  in  our 
warm  libraries.  Hear  of  dead  men  who  fought 
and  dead  men  who  rotted,  and  talk  it  over  on 
our  safe,  sunlit  streets.  Meet  insult  on  the 
high  seas,  and  merely  hold  mass  meetings. 
And  speculate,  speculate,  speculate,  at  our 
laden  dinner  tables,  on  the  probable  outcome. 
"The  part  of  men  is  being  played  by  us  all," 
the  slow  voice  went  on,  "of  men  and  of  descen 
dants  of  men  of  Europe.  It  was  so  that  they 
acted  in  '76  —  the  men  of  Europe,  was  it  not  ? 
And  we  are  the  sons  of  those  who,  before  '76, 
made  Europe  as  they  made  America  —  and 
us.  The  destruction  of  one  of  our  vessels  — 
what  is  that  to  us?  Let's  turn  the  other 
cheek.  And  let's  meet  here  often,  friends, 
what  do  you  say?  Here  it  is  warm  and 
light  —  you  come  from  good  dinners  —  you 
come  in  good  clothes  —  in  automobiles.  Let 
us  meet  to-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to 
morrow  !  Let  us  have  music  —  Where  is 
the  music  to-night  ?  '  Tipperary '  —  '  Mar- 


HEART'S  KINDRED 

seillaise '  —  e  Wacht  Am  Rhein '  —  '  God  Save 
the  King '  —  why  are  we  not  being  stirred  by 
these  to  sign  a  protest,  to  take  a  collection 
which  shall  keep  them  fighting  on?  'Some 
thing  must  be  done  ! '  So  we  meet  —  and 
meet  —  and  meet  again.  And  we  play  a  part 
that  in  the  history  of  the  next  century  will 
make  the  very  schoolboys  say:  'Thank  God, 
America  locked  her  door  and  kept  her  safety 
and  let  them  die ! '  Next  week  —  let  us 
meet  here  again  next  week,  pleasantly  and 
together.  '  Something  must  be  done ! '  In 
the  name  of  all  the  bleeding  nations,  let  us 
keep  on  meeting,  in  this  large  and  lighted 
hall." 

Before  the  silence  in  which  he  turned  away 
had  been  rent  by  the  applause  that  followed 
on  the  surprise  of  it,  another  man  sprang 
from  his  seat  on  the  stage  and  strode  to  the 
front.  In  a  gesture  curiously  awkward  and 
involuntary,  he  signed  them  to  let  him  speak, 
and  his  voice  burst  out  before  they  could  hear 
him. 


HEAKT'S  KINDRED 

"...  he  is  right  —  he  is  right  —  and  I 
burn  in  flesh  and  soul  and  blood  and  bone 
of  these  peoples  of  Europe  who  made  me. 
Their  flesh  cries  to  my  flesh  and  it  answers 
with  a  tongue  that  has  been  dumb  too  long. 
Men  of  America !  Men  who  have  lately  been 
sons  of  the  warring  nations  and  have  crept 
off  here  just  in  time  —  by  a  decade  or  by  a 
century  —  to  stand  with  whole  skins  and 
unbroken  bones  —  let's  have  done  with  it ! 
Do  we  face  our  insults  as  men  —  or  do  we  stand 
silent  and  bid  for  more  ?  And  are  we  another 
kind  of  creature?  Do  we  understand  what 
those  men  suffer?  Are  their  cries  of  agony 
to  us  in  another  tongue?  Have  blood  and 
misery  and  madness  a  language  of  their  own, 
and  are  we  deaf  to  it  —  or  do  we  know  with 
every  fibre  in  us  what  it  is  they  are  going 
through,  what  it  is  they  ask  of  us,  what  it  is 
that  if  we  are  men  we  must  give  them  —  and 
give  them  now !  For  now  their  provocation 
is  our  provocation.  I  ask  you  what  it  shall 
be  —  the  safe  way  of  intervention  ?  Or  the 


HEART'S  KINDRED  123 

hands  of  human  beings,  to  succor  the  naked 
hands  of  the  desperate  and  the  dying  of  our 
own  kin  —  our  own  kin !  And  to  revenge 
our  wrong!" 

In  an  instant  the  hall  was  shattered  by  a 
thousand  cries.  Men  leaped  to  their  feet. 
Some  sat  still.  Some  wept.  But  the  cries 
which  came  from  no  one  knew  whom  of  them, 
rose  and  roared  distinguishably  ! 

"To  war  .  .  .  war  .  .  .  war ! " 

The  Inger  had  risen  and  stood  stooping  for 
ward,  his  hands  on  the  rail,  his  eyes  sweeping 
the  crowd.  His  look  seemed  to  lick  up  some 
thing  that  it  had  long  wanted,  and  to  burn  it 
in  his  face.  He  was  smiling  with  his  teeth 
slightly  showing. 

"Ah-h-h,"  he  said  within  his  breath,  and 
said  it  again,  and  stood  rocking  a  little  and 
breathing  hard. 

The  demonstration  lasted  on  as  if  a  pent 
presence  had  lapped  them  to  itself  and  pos 
sessed  them.  A  man,  and  another  tried  to 
speak,  but  no  one  listened.  A  few  in  the 


124  HEART'S  KINDRED 

front  rows  left  the  hall,  and,  ominous,  and 
barely  audible,  a  hissing  began  in  the  galleries 
and  ran  down  the  great  bank  of  heads,  and 
scourged  the  few  as  they  gained  the  door. 

What  at  last  silenced  them  was  the  dignity 
and  status  of  a  man  who  took  the  stage.  He 
made  no  effort  to  speak.  He  merely  waited. 
Presently  they  were  quiet,  though  not  all 
reseated  themselves. 

He  was  a  man  of  more  than  middle  years, 
with  a  face  worn  and  tortured  —  but  it  was  as 
if  the  torture  had  been  long  ago. 

"My  neighbors,"  he  said,  "will  some  one  tell 
me  why  you  want  to  kill  your  neighbors 
across  the  water?" 

"To  vindicate  our  honor!  To  help  our 
neighbors  and  our  kin!"  shouted  the  lean 
man  who  had  spoken  last. 

The  older  man  regarded  him  quietly : 

"You  want  to  kill  your  neighbors,"  he 
repeated.  "You  want  to  go  over  there  with 
arms  and  be  at  war.  You  want  to  kill  your 
neighbors.  I  am  asking  you  why  ?  " 


HEART'S  KINDRED  125 

From  the  upper  gallery  came  a  cry  that  was 
like  a  signal.  Up  there  a  hundred  throats  took 
up  a  national  hymn.  Instantly  from  the 
balconies  below,  from  pit,  from  stage,  a 
thousand  were  on  their  feet  and  a  thousand 
throats  took  up  the  air.  Not  an  instant  later, 
something  cut  the  current  of  the  tune, 
wavered,  broke,  swelled  —  and  another  na 
tion's  hymn,  by  another  thousand,  rose  and 
bore  upon  the  first,  and  the  two  shook  the 
place  with  discord.  A  third  nation's  air  — 
a  fourth  —  the  hall  was  a  warfare  of  jarring 
voices  —  and  out  of  the  horror  of  sound  came 
the  old  exquisite  phrases,  struggling  for  domi 
nance :  "God  Save  the  Queen"  —  "Watch 
on  the  Rhine,"  "The  Marseillaise,"  "The 
Italian  Hymn,"  and  rollicking  over  all,  the 
sickening  wistfulness  and  hopelessness  and 
sweetness  of  "Tipperary." 

The  Inger  raised  his  great  form  and 
stretched  up  his  arms  and  shook  them  above 
his  head,  and  swung  out  his  right  arm  as  if 
it  flung  a  rope. 


126  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"Yi  —  eih  —  ai  —  la  —  o-o-o-oh  — !"  he 
shouted,  like  the  cry  of  all  the  galloping  cow- 
punchers  of  the  West,  galloping,  and  galloping, 
to  a  thing  on  which,  with  sovereign  intensity, 
they  were  bent.  He  silenced  those  about  him, 
and  they  looked  and  laughed,  and  gave  them 
selves  back  to  their  shouting.  The  woman 
with  the  blue-boned  hand  looked  over  to 
Lory,  and  smiled  with  a  liquid  brightness  in 
her  eyes,  and  her  pink  spangled  fan  tapped 
her  hand  in  tune  with  the  nearest  of  the  songs 
about  her.  This  woman  looked  like  a  woman 
of  the  revolution,  who  believed  that  good  has 
always  come  out  of  war,  and  that  from  war 
good  will  always  come.  She  smiled.  Tears 
rolled  on  her  face.  She  sank  back  weakly, 
but  she  waved  her  pink  spangled  fan. 

As  his  hand  came  down,  Lory  caught  at  the 
Inger's  sleeve. 

"  Can't  we  go  ?  "  she  begged.     "  Can't  we  ?  " 

He  pulled  his  sleeve  from  her  hand,  hardly 
knowing  that  it  was  there,  and  kept  at  his 
shouting. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  127 

The  only  man  to  whom  they  would  listen 
was,  at  last,  the  man  who  had  so  roused  them. 
When,  after  a  hurried  conference  with  the 
chairman,  and  others,  this  man  rose  again, 
they  listened  —  in  the  vague  expectation  that 
something  would  now  be  said  which  would 
excite  them  further. 

"Don't  be  senseless  fools!"  he  shouted. 
"This  is  no  better  than  a  neat,  printed  pro 
test.  'Something  must  be  done!9  Say  what 
it  is  that  you  are  going  to  do,  or  you  may  as 
well  go  home." 

He  turned  pointedly  toward  a  dark-bearded 
man  who  was  evidently  expected  to  follow  him. 
This  man  rose  and  shook  out  a  paper.  He 
shouted  shrilly  and  wagged  his  head  in  his 
effort  to  make  himself  heard,  and  his  long  hair 
swung  at  the  sides. 

"At  this  moment,"  he  rehearsed,  "eigh 
teen  meetings  such  as  this  are  being  held  in 
eighteen  towns  —  New  York,  Baltimore,  New 
Orleans,  Los  Angeles,  San  Francisco,  Salt 
Lake,  Denver,  Omaha,  Portland,  Spokane, 


128  HEART'S  KINDRED 

St.  Louis,  Cleveland,  Minneapolis,  Milwaukee 
—  these  and  the  others  are  holding  meetings 
like  this.  You  know  how  each  meeting  is 
to  take  action  and  transmit  that  action 
to-night  to  each  of  the  other  meeting  places. 
I  ask  you :  what  is  it  that  this  meeting  is 
going  to  do?  And  Mr.  Chairman,  I  make 
you  a  motion." 

The  hall  was  so  silent  that  it  seemed  drained 
of  breathing :  so  electric  with  listening  that 
it  seemed  drained  of  thought. 

"  Mr.  Chairman  and  Gentlemen,  ay,  and 
Ladies,  for  I  deem  you  fully  worthy  to  have  a 
share  in  these  deliberations,"  said  he,  with 
a  magnificent  bow.  "I  move  you,  that, 
Whereas  our  government  in  its  wisdom  has 
seen  fit  to  withhold  itself  from  the  great 
drama  of  the  world's  business  for  a  length  of 
time  not  to  be  tolerated  by  a  great  mass  of  its 
citizens :  and,  Whereas,  since  the  destruction 
of  the  steamship  Fowler,  a  merchant  vessel, 
belonging  to  the  United  States  and  sailing 
neutral  waters,  three  days  have  elapsed  with- 


HEART'S  KINDRED  129 

out  action  on  the  part  of  the  government 
thus  outraged  past  all  precedent  in  conduct 
toward  neutral  nations  —  save  only  one  na 
tion  !  —  That  now,  therefore,  we  here  as 
sembled,  citizens  of  the  United  States,  do 
voice  our  protest  and  demand  of  our  govern 
ment  that  if  within  the  week  no  adequate 
explanation  or  apology  shall  be  forthcoming 
from  the  offending  power,  we  do  proceed  with 
out  further  delay  to  declare  war  against  that 
power. 

"And  I  further  move  you  that  it  be  the 
sense  of  this  meeting  that  we  hereby  petition 
for  immediate  mobilization  of  our  army. 

"And  I  further  move  you  that,  on  the  carry 
ing  of  this  motion,  a  copy  of  it  be  telegraphed 
to  the  President  of  the  United  States,  and 
to  the  Chairmen  of  the  eighteen  similar 
meetings  held  in  the  United  States  this  night, 
in  the  common  name  of  liberty  and  humanity." 

The  hall  became  a  medley  of  sound  with 
but  one  meaning.  Men  leaped  to  the  seats, 
to  the  rails  of  balconies,  shouting.  The 


130  HEART'S  KINDRED 

thing  they  had  wanted  to  have  said  had  been 
said.  The  fire  that  had  been  smouldering 
since  early  in  the  war,  that  had  occasionally 
blazed  in  public  meetings,  in  the  press,  in 
private  denunciation,  had  at  last  eaten  through 
the  long  silence  to  burn  now  with  a  devouring 
flame,  and  the  people  gave  it  fuel. 

A  dozen  men  and  women  there  were  who 
fought  their  way  forward,  and  stood  on  the 
platform,  appealing  for  silence.  One  by  one 
these  tried  to  speak.  To  each  the  hall  listened 
until  it  had  determined  the  temper  of  the 
speaker  :  then,  if  it  was,  as  it  was  from  several, 
a  passionate  denunciation  of  the  policy, 
groans  and  hisses  drowned  the  speaker's 
voice.  And  if  it  was  a  ringing  cry  of  "Pa 
triots  of  the  world,  show  your  patriotism  in 
the  cause  of  the  stricken  world  and  of  this 
offended  nation!"  —  the  fury  of  applauding 
hands  and  stamping  feet  silenced  speech  no 
less. 

"Question  !  Question  !  Question  !"  they 
called  —  not  here  and  there  and  otherwhere, 


HEART'S  KINDRED  131 

but  in  a  great  wave  of  hoarse  shouting,  like  a 
pulse. 

The  Chairman  rose  to  put  the  motion,  and 
as  silence  fell  for  him  to  speak,  a  youth  of 
twenty,  lithe,  dark,  with  a  face  of  the  fineness 
of  some  race  more  like  to  all  peoples  than 
peoples  now  are  like  to  one  another,  hurled  him 
self  before  him,  and  shouted  into  the  quiet : 

"Comrades!  Comrades!  In  the  name  of 
God  —  of  the  hope  of  the  International  .  .  ." 

A  yell  went  up  from  the  hall.  A  dozen 
hands  drew  the  youth  away.  He  waved  his 
arms  toward  the  hall.  From  above  and  below, 
came  voices  —  some  of  men,  some  of  women, 
hoarse  or  clear  or  passionate  : 

"Comrades!     Comrades!.  .  ." 

But  in  that  moment's  breath  of  another 
meaning,  the  speaker  who  first  had  fired 
them  stood  beside  the  chairman,  and  held 
up  a  telegram.  They  let  him  read : 

"Resolution  almost  unanimously 
passed  by  Metropolitan  mass  meeting 
and  by  two  overflow  meetings  ..." 


HEART'S  KINDRED 

If  there  was  more  to  the  telegram,  no  one 
but  the  reader  knew.  The  clamor  was  like 
a  stretching  of  hands  across  the  miles  to 
New  York,  to  clasp  those  other  hands  in  their 
brother-lust.  The  youth  of  twenty  flung 
himself  free  of  those  who  had  held  him, 
and  dropped  to  the  floor,  and  sat  hugging 
his  knees  and  staring  out  over  the  hall  as 
if  death  sat  there,  infinitely  repeated,  and 
naked. 

The  Chairman  lifted  his  hand.  "You  have 
heard  the  motion.  Does  any  one  desire  to 
hear  it  re-read?" 

Again  that  amazing,  pulsing,  unanimity  of 
the  cry : 

"  Question  !     Question  !     Question  ! " 

"All  those  in  favor — "  the  Chairman's 
bent  head  was  raised  so  that  he  peered  at 
them  from  under  his  lids  —  "will  make  it 
manifest  by  saying  'ay.' ' 

Out  of  the  depth  of  their  experience  and 
practice  at  meetings  for  charity,  for  phi 
lanthropy,  for  church,  for  state,  for  home, 


HEART'S  KINDRED  133 

they  voted,  so  that  it  was  like  One  Great 
Thing  with  a  voice  of  its  own. 

"Ay!" 

In  this  "ay"  the  Inger's  voice  boomed  out 
so  that  some  remembered  and  wondered,  and 
even  in  that  moment,  a  few  turned  to  see 
him. 

"Those  opposed  will  make  it  manifest  by 
saying  'no.' ' 

The  boy  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  with  the 
clear  call  of  a  few  hundred  no's,  his  own  voice 
rang  out  in  agony : 

"Oh  my  God,"  he  said,  "No!     No!     No!" 

There  must  have  been  a  thousand  who 
laughed  at  him  and  called  him  a  name.  But 
the  others  were  gone  wild  again.  And  with 
them  the  Inger  was  shouting  his  wildest,  so 
that  for  a  moment  he  did  not  hear  Lory. 
Then  he  realized  that  she  was  standing  beside 
him  crying  with  the  few  hundred  their 
'No!'" 

He  took  her  by  the  shoulder  and  shook  her 
roughly. 


134  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"What  do  you  want  to  do  that  for?"  he 
said.  "Are  you  a  white  feather?" 

It  smote  him  with  dull  surprise  that  she 
was  so  calm. 

She  answered  him  as  she  might  have  spoken 
on  the  mountain  trail : 

"If  that  means  that  I  ain't  like  them,"  she 
said,  "then  I  am  a  white  feather,  I  guess." 

"But  look  here,"  he  burst  out,  "you're 
no  mollycoddle.  You're  the  West !  You 
know  how  things  go  — " 

She  broke  in  then,  with  her  face  turned 
toward  the  hall  again. 

;<Yes,"  she  said.  "I  know  how  things  go. 
They're  voting  to  kill  folks  —  Oh  my  God!" 

The  Inger  blazed  up  in  a  flame. 

"It  ain't  any  such  thing!"  he  burst  out. 
"They  don't  care  a  hang  about  killing  folks 
—  not  for  the  fun  o'  killing  !" 

He  hurled  his  new  fact  at  her,  passionately 
anxious  that  she  should  understand. 

"Don't  you  see?"  he  cried.  "It's  for 
somethin'  —  it's  for  somethin' !  That's  all 


HEART'S  KINDRED  135 

the  difference.  It's  grand  !  It's  —  it's  grand 
— "  He  shook  with  his  effort  to  make  her 
know. 

"It's  killing  'em  just  as  dead!"  she  said, 
and  she  wept. 

Here  the  Inger  received  an  unexpected  ally. 
The  woman  with  the  blue-boned  hand  beside 
Lory  leaned  forward,  and  touched  the  girl's 
arm  with  her  pink,  spangled  fan : 

"My  child,"  she  said,  "try  to  understand: 
killing  is  so  small  a  part  of  it  all !" 

Lory  faced  her,  and  her  eyes  blazed  into 
the  faded  eyes  of  her. 

"Did  you  ever  see  your  father  kill  a 
sheriff?"  she  asked.  "Well,  mine  did —  and 
I  watched  him.  And  I  tell  you,  no  matter 
how  murderin'  is  done,  it's  hell.  If  you  don't 
know  that,  take  it  from  me !" 

About  them,  the  crowd,  waiting  for  no  ad 
journment,  was  rising,  streaming  out,  falling 
back  as  it  got  to  the  doors.  The  Inger, 
marshalling  Lory  before  him,  made  his  way 
with  the  rest.  He  looked  across  Lory's  head 


136  HEART'S  KINDRED 

and  above  most  of  the  others.  He  was  notic 
ing  the  people. 

There  was  a  fine  stalwart  lad,  he  thought  — 
good  for  the  army,  and  looking  ready  to 
shoulder  his  gun.  That  chap  with  the 
shoulders  —  what  a  seat  he'd  have  in  the 
cavalry  —  or  on  a  broncho,  for  the  matter  of 
that.  That  fellow  there  was  too  old,  but  he 
was  in  excited  talk  with  some  one,  and  both 
were  as  eager  as  boys.  Some  were  still  shout 
ing  to  one  another,  flushed  with  immediate 
purpose.  Others  were  quiet  and  moved  out 
soberly,  as  when  the  lights  come  back  after 
the  great  climax.  But  every  one  was  thrilled 
and  fired  by  a  powerful  emotion,  and  it  lived 
in  their  faces.  The  Inger  read  it  there,  be 
cause  he  felt  it  in  his  own.  He  warmed  to 
them  all. 

A  man  about  town,  fashionably  dressed,  and 
in  absorbed  talk,  came  down  on  the  Inger's 
foot  with  shocking  vigor. 

"I'm  so  sorry !"  he  exclaimed  in  a  hurrying 
falsetto,  pitching  down  three  notes  of  the  scale. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  137 

"Don't  you  give  a  damn,"  said  the  Inger 
unexpectedly. 

At  the  door,  in  the  bewilderment  of  lights 
and  carriage  calls  and  traffic,  the  Inger  stood 
in  complete  uncertainty. 

"Can  you  tell  me — "  "Say,  could  you 
tell  me  — "  "Say,  which  way  — "he  addressed 
one  or  two,  but  in  the  inner  turmoil  of  them  and 
in  the  clamor  without,  they  did  not  heed  him. 

The  Inger  faced  the  next  man,  a  fat  being, 
with  two  nieces  —  one  knew  that  they  were 
nieces;  and  demanded  of  him  to  be  told  the 
way  to  his  station. 

"Lord  bless  me,"  said  the  man.  "Get  on 
any  car  going  that  way  !" 

"Thank  you  to  hell,"  said  the  Inger 
heartily.  "Hope  we're  on  the  same  side," 
he  warmed  to  it.  "Hope  we're  in  the  same 
regiment !"  he  mounted  with  it. 

As  the  two  swung  out  on  the  sidewalk,  he 
was  silent  with  the  vague  mulling  of  this. 

"Could  we  walk?"  Lory  suggested.  "Is 
there  time?" 


138  HEART'S  KINDRED 

He  welcomed  it.  They  went  up  Wabash 
Avenue  with  the  slow-moving  crowd. 

It  had  been  raining,  and  the  asphalt  between 
the  rails,  and  the  rails  themselves,  were  wet 
and  shining.  The  black  cobblestones  were 
covered  thinly  with  glossy  mud.  Even  the 
sidewalks  palely  mirrored  the  amazing  flame 
of  the  lights. 

It  was  another  Chicago  from  the  city  which 
they  had  entered  with  the  dawn.  Here  was 
a  gracious  place  of  warm-looking  ways,  and 
a  time  of  leisure,  and  the  people  meant  other 
than  the  people  of  the  morning.  The  Inger 
moved  among  them,  swam  with  them,  looked 
on  them  all  with  something  new  stirring  him. 

Lory  went  silently.  She  had  slipped  her 
handkerchief  cap  away,  and  her  hair  was 
bright  and  uncovered  in  the  lamplight.  But 
she  seemed  not  to  be  looking  anywhere. 

"You  did  get  on  to  it  there  to-night,  didn't 
you?"  he  asked,  wistfully. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  said. 

"Why  — the    new    part,"    he    told    her. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  139 

"Didn't  you  notice?  Every  last  one  of  'em 
was  goin'  on  about  country  and  folks.  That's 
why  they  want  to  go" 

She  was  silent,  and  he  was  afraid  that  she 
did  not  understand. 

"I  never  thought  of  it  till  to-night,  either," 
he  excused  her.  "Don't  you  see?  Fellows 
don't  want  to  go  to  war  just  to  smash  around 
for  a  fight.  It's  for  somethin'  else." 

He  stopped,  vaguely  uncomfortable  in  his 
exaltation. 

"It's  killin',"  she  said,  "an'  killin'  's  killin'." 

He  stood  still  on  the  walk,  regardless  of  the 
passers,  and  shook  her  arm. 

"Good  heavens,"  he  said,  "women  had 
ought  to  see  that.  Women  are  better'n  men, 
and  they'd  ought  to  see  it !  Can't  you  get 
past  the  killin'  ?  Can't  you  understand  they 
might  have  a  thunderin'  reason?" 

"No  reason  don't  matter,"  she  said.  "It's 
killin'.  And  it  ain't  anything  else." 

He  walked  on,  his  head  bent,  his  eyes  on 
the  ground.  She  knew  that  he  was  disap- 


140  HEART'S  KINDRED 

pointed  in  her  —  but  she  was  too  much  shaken 
to  think  about  that.  She  remembered  how 
her  mother  had  watched  her  brother  go  out 
to  fight  after  some  mean  uprising  of  drunken 
whites  against  the  Indians.  Nobody  knew 
now  what  it  had  been  about,  but  six  men  had 
been  shot.  That  stayed. 

Presently  the  Inger  raised  his  head,  and 
walked  with  it  thrown  back  again.  Women, 
he  supposed,  wouldn't  understand.  They  were 
afraid  —  they  hated  a  gun  —  they  hated  a 
scratch.  There  was  the  woman  with  the 
blue-boned  hand  and  wrist  and  the  pink 
spangled  fan  —  she  understood,  it  seemed. 
But  somehow  that  proved  nothing,  and  he 
freed  his  thought  of  her. 

A  window  of  birds  took  his  fancy.  The 
poor  things,  trying  to  sleep  in  the  night  light, 
were  tucked  uncomfortably  about  their  cages, 
while  their  soft  breasts  and  wings  attracted 
to  the  feather  shop  possible  buyers.  The 
Inger  looked  at  them,  thinking.  He  turned 
excitedly. 


HEMIT'S  KINDRED  141 

"I  get  you  about  that  red  bird,"  he  cried, 
"when  you  said  not  kill  it!  Well,  there 
wasn't  any  reason  for  killin'  the  red  bird  — 
not  any  real  reason.  I  don't  blame  you  for 
rowin'  at  it.  But  can't  you  see  that  killin' 
men  in  war  is  differ 'nt?" 

She  looked  upon  him  with  sudden  attention. 
While  he  was  being  directed  to  their  street, 
she  stood  thinking  about  what  he  had  said. 

"Is  that  the  way  you  felt  about  it  when  you 
first  said  you  was  going  to  the  war?"  she 
asked  when  he  joined  her. 

"Gosh,  no,"  he  replied  almost  reverently. 
"All  I  been  wantin'  to  go  to  war  for  was  to 
raise  hell  —  legitimate.  Don't  you  see  no 
differ'nce?"  he  repeated. 

It  was  then  that  she  began  to  understand 
what  a  mighty  thing  had  happened  to  him. 
Her  insistence  that  war  was  merely  killing, 
was  merely  murder,  had  done  violence  to  his 
new  idealism.  And  without  the  skill  to  corre 
late  her  impressions  of  this,  she  divined  that 
here  was  something  which  was  showing  her, 


142  HEART'S  KINDRED 

once  more,  the  measure  of  this  man.  And 
she  saw,  too,  that  now  she  should  not  fail 
him. 

She  could  say  nothing,  but  as  they  crossed 
the  street  to  the  station,  she  suddenly  slipped 
her  hand  within  his  great  swinging  arm. 

He  caught  at  her  hand  with  a  passion  that 
amazed  her.  As  his  own  closed  over  hers,  she 
drew  breathlessly  away  again. 

"Oh,"  she  said.  "Maybe  it's  late.  We 
didn't  hurry.  .  .  ." 

He  made  no  comment.  At  the  station  they 
claimed  their  packs  and  sat  down  to  wait. 
Two  hours  or  more  later,  as  they  stood  by  the 
gate,  a  man  with  many  bundles  jostled  Lory 
and  stood  beside  her,  unseeing,  with  a  long 
parcel  jabbing  at  her  neck.  The  Inger  laid 
his  great  hand  on  him. 

"Say,  Snickerfritz,"  he  said,  in  perfect  good 
humor,  "lamp  the  lady  there." 

And  when  the  man  apologized,  the  Inger 
smiled  his  slow  smile,  and  waved  his  huge 
hand  at  him. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  143 

As  he  looked  at  this  man  and  at  the  tired 
woman  beside  the  man,  it  occurred  to  the 
Inger  that  these  people  must  all  have  homes. 
This  was  a  thing  that  he  had  never  thought 
about  before.  Always  he  had  seen  people, 
as  it  were,  in  the  one  dimension  of  their  per 
sonal  presence,  taking  no  account  of  them 
otherwise  —  neither  of  that  second  dimension 
of  their  inner  beings,  nor  of  the  third  dimen 
sion  of  their  relationships. 

"I  bet  they  all  got  some  little  old  hole  they 
crawl  into,"  he  said,  aloud.  And  as  the  gate 
opened,  and  the  two  filed  down  the  platform 
behind  the  man  with  the  parcels  and  the  tired 
woman,  the  Inger  added:  "That  gink  and 
his  dame  —  they  looked  spliced.  Doggone 
it,  I  bet  they  got  a  dug-out  somewheres !" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Lory,  in  surprise.  "Sure 
they  have.  What  of  it  ?  " 

"Oh  well,  I  donno,"  he  mumbled. 
"Nothin'  much." 

In  the  day  coach,  he  turned  over  a  seat,  and 
in  the  forward  one,  he  deposited  the  two  packs. 


144  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"I  don't  need  two  seats,"  she  objected. 

"No,"  he  assented.    "You  sit  down  there." 

She  sat  by  the  window,  and  he  beside  her. 
On  the  way  across  the  desert,  she  had  sat 
alone  at  night,  with  her  pack  for  a  pillow,  and 
he  in  a  seat  near  by.  She  said  nothing  now, 
and  when  the  train  began  to  move,  they  still 
sat  in  silence,  watching  the  lights  wheel  and 
march,  run  to  the  windows,  and  vanish  with 
no  chance  to  explain  themselves,  and  an 
edge  of  dawn  streaking  the  sky.  When  he 
saw  her  eyes  droop,  he  put  his  arm  about  her, 
and  drew  her  head  down  until  it  lay  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"I  want  you  should  go  to  sleep  there,"  he 
said. 

For  a  moment  he  held  her  so,  not  the  less 
tenderly  that  his  great  arms  would  not  let  her 
move.  But  this  obedience  was,  after  all, 
not  what  he  wanted.  "Do  you  want  to?" 
he  demanded,  and  half  loosed  his  clasp. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered  sleepily  — 
but  she  did  not  move  away. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  145 

In  a  little  while  she  fell  asleep,  and  he  sat 
so  and  held  her.  Her  weight  became  a  deli 
cious  discomfort.  He  was  not  thinking  either 
of  that  night  on  the  trail,  or  of  what  might  be. 
He  was  hardly  thinking  at  all.  He  was  swept 
by  the  sweetness  of  the  hour  and  by  the  sense 
of  an  exalted  living,  such  as  he  had  never 
dreamed ;  an  exalted  warfare,  in  which  men 
killed  for  great  reasons.  And  once  his  feeling 
was  shot  through  with  the  recognition  that 
every  one  in  the  car  would  be  believing  that 
she  was  his  wife ;  that  every  one  in  the  car 
would  be  thinking  that  they  had  a  home  some 
where. 

He  put  his  lips  on  her  hair,  and  then  rested 
his  cheek  there.  So,  sleeping,  they  sped 
through  that  new  world. 


VII 

AT  Harrisburg,  he  bought  a  New  York  paper. 
There  have  been  huge  mass  meetings  in  New 
York  to  which  only  an  inch  of  space  was  given, 
on  a  back  page ;  but  this  meeting  had  the 
second  column  next  to  the  war  news.  Two 
overflow  meetings  had  been  held  and  in  all 
three,  the  enthusiasm,  the  newspaper  said,  had 
been  tremendous,  the  sentiment  overwhelming. 
The  editorial  boldly  supported  the  headlines : 

".  .  .  enough  of  this  policy  of  ne 
gation.  If  national  pride  has  not 
been  sufficient  to  prompt  the  United 
States  to  activity,  to  its  role  as  a 
leader  among  the  powers,  surely  the 
goad  of  a  violated  neutrality  and  an 
utter  disregard  of  international  law 
should  be  sufficient  to  open  the  eyes 
of  its  people.  .  .  . 

146 


HEART'S  KINDRED  147 

"The  refusal  to  exercise  interven 
tion  was  natural.  The  refusal  to 
make  the  first  move  in  calling  a  con 
gress  of  all  nations  including  the  bel 
ligerents,  was  hardly  less  so.  We 
should  in  no  wise  assume  to  dictate  to 
the  powers  of  Europe.  The  refusal 
to  mobilize  the  army  or  to  begin  to 
provide  anything  like  adequate  coast 
defences  a  people  has  borne  patiently 
and  far  too  long.  But  the  tacit  re 
fusal  to  permit  the  citizens  to  bear 
arms  in  defence  of  this  their  land  .  .  . 
etc." 

The  Inger  slapped  the  paper  and  the  page 
slit  down  its  length. 

"That's  it,"  he  said,  "they've  got  it.  Ain't  it 
a  wonder,"  he  put  it  to  the  flying  Pennsylvania 
landscape,  "that  I  come  just  when  I  come?" 

The  graciousness  and  quiet  of  Washington, 
the  spaciousness  of  the  vast  white  station,  the 
breadth  and  leisure  of  the  streets,  welcomed 


148  HEART'S  KINDRED 

them  like  a  presence.  Here  was  something 
such  as  they  had  left  at  home  —  a  sense  of  the 
ample. 

"Seems  like  there  was  room  enough  for 
two  more  here,"  said  the  Inger  contentedly, 
as  they  turned  into  the  avenue. 

They  chose  to  walk  to  find  Lory's  aunt, 
lured  by  the  large  village  aspect  of  the  place. 
And  as  they  walked,  there  leaped  up  for  them 
from  the  roofs  the  insistent,  dominant  shaft 
of  the  monument. 

"Thanks  be,"  said  the  Inger.  "There's 
somethin'  to  shin  up.  It  begun  to  look  to 
me  like  the  East  is  a  place  where  all  the  trails 
laid  flat." 

"I  kind  of  like  it  here,  though,"  Lory  said 
apologetically. 

"Seems  like  there's  more  folks  and  their 
stuff,  and  less  of  God  and  his  stuff,"  the  Inger 
offered  after  a  pause. 

Lory  shook  her  head.  Her  hair  was  in 
disorder,  and  the  soot  of  the  train  filmed  her 
face,  but  her  look  was  strangely  radiant. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  149 

"I  donno.  I  feel  like  there  was  lots  of 
God  around,"  she  said. 

She  had  waked  the  previous  morning  in  the 
dimness  of  the  coach  and  had  found  her  head 
on  his  shoulder,  his  cheek  on  her  hair,  her 
hand  in  his  hand.  For  a  moment  she  lay 
still,  remembering.  Then  she  lifted  her  face 
slowly,  lest  she  should  waken  him.  But  he 
was  awake  and  smiled  down  at  her,  without 
moving,  save  that  his  clasp  a  little  tightened. 
She  struggled  up,  her  flushed  face  still  near 
his. 

4 'Your arm,"  she  said  ;  "ain't  it  near  dead  ?" 

He  sat  quietly,  and  still  smiling.  "I  give 
you  my  word,"  he  said,  "I  ain't  once  thought 
of  myself  in  connection  with  that  arm's 
dyin'." 

"Did  you  sleep  ?"  she  demanded,  anxiously. 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  said  ruefully,  "I  did  — 
some." 

Having  thought  of  him,  she  began  to  think 
of  herself.  She  sat  erect,  her  hands  busy  at 
her  hair,  her  face  crimson. 


150  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"Tell  me  something,"  he  said,  and  when  she 
looked  round  at  him  :  "did  you  care  ?" 

"Did  I  care  —  what?"  she  asked. 

He  kept  her  eyes.  "Did  you?"  he  re 
peated. 

"I  care  about  bein'  a  whole  lot  of  bother  to 
you,"  she  answered  gravely.  "An*  I'm  goin' 
to  pay  for  my  own  breakfast." 

They  breakfasted  for  the  first  time  in  the 
dining-car  —  both  infinitely  ill  at  ease,  Lory 
confusedly  ordering  the  first  things  on  the 
card,  the  Inger  indolently  demanding  flap 
jacks  and  bacon.  And  when  they  brought 
the  bacon  dry,  he  repudiated  it,  and  asked 
gently  if  they  thought  he  didn't  know  how  it 
was  cooked  or  what  ?  —  ultimately  securing, 
with  the  interested  participation  of  the  stew 
ard,  a  swimming  dish  of  gravy.  After  that, 
Lory  had  slipped  in  a  vacant  seat  on  the  other 
side  of  the  car,  and  he  had  gone  back  to  their 
own  seat,  and  stared  miserably  out  the  win 
dow.  He  ought,  he  reflected,  to  have  been 
showing  her  at  every  step  of  the  way  that  he 


HEART'S  KINDRED  151 

despised  himself;  and  here  instead  he  had 
made  her  ill  at  ease  with  him,  afraid  of  him, 
eager  to  be  away  from  him.  That  night,  in  the 
long  dragging  journey  of  their  slow  train,  they 
had  sat  apart,  as  they  had  sat  on  the  Overland. 

Here  on  the  avenue  in  Washington,  she  was 
merely  disregarding  him.  For  the  first  time 
in  their  days  together,  she  seemed  to  be 
almost  happy.  That,  he  settled  the  matter, 
was  because  she  was  so  soon  to  be  free  of  him. 
There  came  upon  him,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
the  memory  of  her  reason  for  coming  to  him 
in  her  need  — 

"I  didn't  know  no  woman  I  could  tell  — 
nor  no  other  decent  man." 

It  was  the  supreme  compliment  of  his  life 
—  it  was  his  justification.  And  how  had  he 
rewarded  it.  ... 

Suddenly  he  felt  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
when  he  turned,  she  was  looking  away  and 
before  them.  He  followed  her  eyes  and  saw 
the  white  dome. 

"  It's  it,"  she  said,  reverently. 


152  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "It's  it,  sure  enough." 

They  walked  on,  staring  at  it.  All  that 
could  be  in  the  heart  of  a  people  all  the  time 
was  in  their  faces  for  the  meaning  of  it. 

In  a  little  back  street,  ugly  save  for  its 
abundant  shade,  they  came  to  the  home  of 
Lory's  aunt.  It  was  a  chubby  house,  with 
bright  eyes,  and  the  possibilities,  never  de 
veloped,  of  a  smile.  There  were  a  small, 
smothered  yard,  and  an  over-ripe  fence,  and 
the  evidences  of  complete  discouragement  on 
the  part  of  the  house  to  distinguish  itself  from 
its  neighbors,  all  made  in  the  same  mint. 

A  woman  with  an  absorbed  look  answered 
the  door;  when  she  saw  them,  she  slightly 
opened  her  mouth,  but  the  absorbed  look  did 
not  leave  her  eyes. 

"For  evermore,"  she  said.  "It's  Lory 
Moor.  And  I  ain't  a  thing  in  the  house  to 
eat." 

The  girl  kissed  her,  and  the  woman  suffered 
it,  not  without  interest,  but  still  in  that  other 
absorption,  and  led  them  into  the  house. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  153 

"How'd  you  ever  come  to  come?"  she  said. 
"I  have  got  some  fresh  baked  bread,  if  that'll 
do  you." 

And  at  Lory's  protest, 

"This  your  husband?"  her  aunt  asked. 
"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what,  we  can  send  him 
to  the  bakery." 

With  this  the  Inger  took  matters  in  his 
own  hands.  There  was  something  epic  in  his 
description. 

"Miss  Moor's  husband  that  was  going  to 
be,"  he  said,  "  is  Mr.  Bunchy  Haight,  a  saloon 
keeper  in  Inch.  She's  run  away  from  him  on 
her  weddin'  night.  And  I've  brought  her  to 
you.  Wasn't  that  right?" 

"My  gracious,"  said  her  aunt. 

"It's  just  till  I  get  a  job,"  Lory  put  in. 
"Was  I  right  to  come,  Aunt  'Cretia?" 

"Why,  of  course  so,  of  course  so,"  said  her 
aunt.  "Jem  Moor  always  was  a  weak  fool. 
Can  you  make  biscuits?" 

Lory  nodded. 

"Then  we'll  have  biscuits  and  honey  for 


154  HEART'S  KINDRED 

supper,"  she  arranged  it,  and  the  principal 
thing  settled:  "How  is  Jem?"  she  said,  and 
then  took  account  of  her  niece's  presence  with 
"How  you  have  grown  !" 

In  a  little  while  they  went  out  to  the  kitchen. 
And  there  the  plump  complacence  of  the  little 
house  gave  way,  and  they  stood  facing  its 
tragedy.  As  they  entered,  a  chain  rattled  and 
drew  across  the  zinc  under  the  cooking-stove. 
An  old  man  got  to  his  feet,  and  one  of  his  legs 
was  chained  to  the  leg  of  the  wooden  settle. 
He  must  have  been  eighty.  His  gray  beard 
half  covered  his  face.  He  stood  with  his  head 
forward,  and  watched  them  immovably. 

"It's  Hiram's  father,"  said  Aunt  'Cretia 
parenthetically.  "We've  kep'  him  chained  in 
the  kitchen  'most  a  year  now.  His  head  ain't 
right." 

The  Inger  went  over  to  him,  seized  by  a 
horror  and  a  pity  which  shook  him,  and  he 
stood  with  this  leaping  pity  in  his  face.  On  a 
sudden  impulse  he  put  out  his  hand  to  the  old 
man,  with  a  groping  sense  that  here  was  a 


HEART'S  KINDRED  155 

language  which  the  maddest  could  compre 
hend. 

To  his  amazement,  the  old  man  jumped 
backward,  his  chain  dragging  and  rattling  on 
the  floor.  From  his  throat  there  came  a 
sound,  three  times  repeated,  like  a  guttural 
giving  forth  of  breath.  Then  slowly  his  lips 
drew  back  until  they  showed  his  toothless 
gums,  where  might  have  been  fangs.  He 
crouched  and  watched. 

They  stood  so  for  a  moment,  looking  at 
each  other.  Then  the  Inger  wheeled  and 
strode  to  the  door,  and  went  out  in  the  little 
kitchen  garden.  Late  sunlight  slanted  here, 
swallows  were  wheeling  and  twittering,  and 
a  comfortable  cat  was  delicately  walking  a 
fence. 

The  man  stood,  feeling  a  sudden  physical 
nausea.  Something  not  in  human  happenings 
had  happened.  He  felt  as  if  he  could  never 
go  into  that  room  again.  He  sat  down  on  the 
clothes  reel.  He  had  felt  friendliness,  and 
the  old  man  had  wanted  to  spring  at  him. 


156  HEART'S  KINDRED 

It  was  monstrous,  incredible.  He  found  him 
self  trying  to  make  in  his  throat  the  sound  that 
the  old  man  had  made. 

He  sat  there  until  Lory  came  to  the  door  to 
tell  him  that  supper  was  ready.  She  was  in 
a  clean  print  gown,  from  her  pack.  She 
stood  beside  him,  smiling,  and  telling  him  that 
the  biscuits  were  hot  and  that  her  uncle  had 
come.  The  gown,  her  smile,  what  she  was 
saying,  all  brought  him  back,  grateful,  to 
the  commonplace  hour.  He  followed  her, 
and  spoke  fearfully. 

"Do  we  eat  in  the  kitchen,  do  you  know?" 
he  asked. 

To  her  negative  he  made  no  comment,  and 
went  with  her  through  the  kitchen,  but  he 
could  not  keep  from  looking.  The  old  man 
sat  on  the  settle,  his  eyes  immovably  fixed 
on  them.  "If  I  try  to  touch  him,  he'll 
snarl,"  the  Inger  thought.  "He'll  snarl" 

Lory's  uncle,  Hiram  Folts,  a  petty  clerk 
in  one  of  the  departments,  was  plainly 
staggered  by  this  advent  into  his  household, 


HEART'S  KINDRED  157 

and  plied  his  guests  with  questions.  He  was 
a  thick,  knotted  man,  who  walked  as  if  his 
feet  hurt,  and  continually  fumbled  with  blunt 
finger  tips  at  his  shaven  jaw. 

"I  was  saying  to  her  yesterday,  or  Tuesday, 
—  or  was  it  Monday  ?  —  that  she  hadn't 
heard  from  you  folks  in  a  long  while,"  he  said. 

The  talk,  the  food,  the  motley  dishes, 
the  wall-paper  and  the  colored  pictures  were 
the  American  middle-class  home  at  its  drear 
iest.  But  there  was  cheer  and  there  was 
welcome,  and  the  kindly  hearts  were  poten 
tialities  of  what  might  be  in  human  relation 
ship.  Through  the  hour,  came  the  dragging 
and  the  rattling  of  the  old  man's  chain  on 
the  zinc,  and  once  a  fretful,  tired  whining. 

"Be  good,  pa !"  Hiram  Folts  called,  gently, 
and  the  whining  ceased. 

By  some  fortune,  he  had  a  meeting  which 
took  him  early,  leaving  the  household  rocking 
with  his  hunt  for  a  properly  ironed  collar. 
Lory  electing  to  rest,  the  Inger  set  forth  with 
his  host,  and  left  him  as  soon  as  he  could,  with 


158  HEART'S  KINDRED 

the  promise  to  be  his  guest  for  that  night. 
This  little  man  was  one  whom,  in  a  saloon  in 
Inch,  the  Inger  would  unmercifully  have  be 
devilled.  But  sitting  at  his  table,  he  had 
taken  him  at  another  value,  and  later  had 
insisted  hotly  on  paying  his  car  fare. 

Once  alone  down  town  in  that  city,  the 
Inger  walked  with  head  erect,  his  eyes  on  the 
fagades  of  buildings,  on  the  lights,  on  all  the 
aspects  of  a  city  street  to  which  the  habitues 
grow  accustomed.  This  was,  for  the  world 
of  a  city,  the  most  beautiful  world  which  he 
had  ever  walked.  He  knew  not  at  all  what 
it  was  that  pleased  him.  But  the  order  and 
smoothness  of  the  streets,  the  leisure  or  pleas 
ant  absorption  of  the  passers,  the  abundant 
light,  the  dignity  of  the  stone,  all  these  met 
him  with  another  contact  than  that  of  muddy, 
roystering  Inch,  or  the  shining  body  of  San  Fran 
cisco,  or  the  sullen,  struggling  soul  of  Chicago. 

"A  fellow  must  have  a  nerve  to  get  drunk 
here,"  was  the  way  that  he  thought  all  this. 

Before  the  office  of  The  Post  he  halted  and 


HEART'S  KINDRED  159 

crossed.     A  lit  bulletin  board  had  called  a 
crowd : 

"President  Receives  Telegrams 
from  Eighteen  Mass  Meetings  De 
manding  War." 

he  read. 

A  rough  voice  cried  out : 

"Yes,  and  if  there'd  been  anybody  home  in 
Washington,  we'd  had  a  meeting  here !" 

No  one  made  any  comment,  and  the  man  dis 
appeared  in  the  crowd. 

"Ten  Thousand  Cut  to  Pieces  in 
the  Stelvio  Pass." 

the  bulletin  went  on. 

"'End  of  the  War  Not  in  Sight' 
Lord  of  Admiralty  says. 

"Two  Thousand  Women  March 
Sixty  Miles  in  the  Snow  with  Their 
Children. 

"Seven  Women  Travel  Together 
to  Washington  from  Seven  Warring 
Nations." 


160  HEART'S  KINDRED 

The  Inger  went  on  down  the  street.  The 
bulletin  board  was  like  a  window  opened 
abruptly  upon  another  world,  and  closed 
again.  Again  the  quiet  and  soft  brilliance  of 
Pennsylvania  Avenue  came  to  meet  him. 
He  turned  and  looked  back  at  that  dim, 
watchful  dome. 

"Nothin'  to  stir  a  man  up  to  enlist  here," 
he  thought.  "This  town  looks  like  the  war'd 
been  put  to  bed." 

He  looked  in  at  the  door  of  the  New  Willard, 
saw  the  lobby  and  the  corridor  unaccountably 
filled  with  women,  and  retreated.  On  the 
street  he  looked  down  at  himself  in  slow 
speculation. 

"I  donno  but  what  I'd  look  better  in 
some  differ'nt  clothes,"  he  thought,  in  sur 
prise. 

When  he  returned  to  the  house,  Lory  had 
gone  to  bed,  and  he  felt  a  vague  disappoint 
ment.  He  had  wanted  to  tell  her  about  it. 
Yet,  in  the  morning,  when  he  tried  to  tell 
her,  all  that  he  found  to  say  was : 


HEART'S  KINDRED  161 

"It's  a  nice,  neat  town.  Everybody  minds 
their  own  business.  I  tell  you,  a  fellow'd 
have  his  nerve  to  get  drunk  here." 

Against  her  aunt's  will,  Lory  was  to  begin 
her  search  for  work  that  day.  There 
were  virtually  no  advertisements  for  help. 
She  started  early  to  find  an  employment 
agency.  The  Inger  went  with  her,  and  when 
they  were  alone  in  the  street,  she  turned  to 
him. 

"Don't  you  leave  me  keep  you  here  a 
minute,"  she  said  earnestly.  "You  go  when 
you're  ready  —  you  know  that." 

"  Go  where  ?  "  he  said.     "  Where'll  I  go  ?  " 

"Where  you  want  to,"  she  answered.  "I 
mean  —  I've  hung  on  to  you  long  enough." 

;<You  want  me  to  go,  don't  you?"  he  said. 
"Well  —  I  should  think  you  would." 

"I  don't  want  to  drag  on  you  —  and  spend 
your  money,"  she  answered.  "As  soon  as  I 
can,  I'll  pay  you  for  my  ticket  —  you  know 
that—" 

She  stopped,  suddenly  breathless. 


162  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  ain't  goin'  to  try  to  tell 
you  all  you  done  for  me.  I  guess  you  know 
that!" 

"You  look  a-here,"  he  said,  "I'm  goin'  to 
sit  by  till  I  see  you  get  some  kind  of  a  job  — 
if  a  job's  what  you  want.  Oh,  don't  be 
afraid  I'll  bother  you.  I'll  get  a  room  some- 
wheres  —  and  keep  track.  And  don't  you 
be  afraid  I'll  do  much  —  not  much  —  that  I 
don't  want  to  do." 

They  went  to  one  or  two  of  the  agencies, 
and  the  Inger  waited  on  the  curb  till  she 
reappeared  —  sometimes  after  an  hour  of 
his  waiting.  And  once  as  they  went  through 
a  downtown  street,  he  spoke  in  wonder : 

"I  never  saw  so  many  women  in  a  place 
in  my  life,"  he  said.  "Not  even  in  Inch,  in 
race  track  times.  Did  you  notice?" 

Lory  sighed.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  did. 
How  do  you  s'pose  they  all  got  so  much 
to  see  about,  and  such  a  lot  o'  nice  clothes?" 
she  asked. 

The  day  passed  fruitlessly  for  her.     The 


HEART'S  KINDRED  163 

Inger  found  a  room,  which  he  rented  without 
looking  at  it,  and  came  back  to  the  Folts's  for 
his  things.  Mrs.  Folts  insisted  that  he  stay 
for  supper,  and  when  he  had  accepted  he  was 
aghast  to  find  that,  the  evening  being  chilly, 
and  Mr.  Folts  being  kept  late  at  the  depart 
ment  that  night,  they  were  to  sit  at  supper 
in  the  kitchen. 

The  old  man  on  the  settle  was  very  quiet. 
He  sat  crouched  in  a  corner,  and  save  for 
those  immovable  eyes  on  them  all,  his  pres 
ence  would  hardly  have  been  noticed.  The 
Inger  had  brought  an  evening  paper,  and 
occasionally  he  read  from  it  snatches  of  the 
European  [news,  but  principally  to  keep  his 
eyes  from  the  old  man. 

"Ranks  to  be  thrown  open  with 
out  age  limit." 

he  read. 

"Rumored  that  young  boys  and 
old  men  will  be  drafted  within  a 
month." 


164  HEART'S  KINDRED 

"  There,  pa,  who  says  that  ain't  your 
chance?"  Mrs.  Folts  put  in. 

The  old  man  lifted  his  head,  and  listened. 

"War  may  drag  on  for  another  year,"  the 
Inger  continued,  and  the  old  man  broke  out 
with  that  sharp  labored  outpouring  of  gut 
tural  breath  —  once,  twice,  three  times. 

"War!"  he  said.  "War.  War.  Who 
says  I  can  go?  Who  says.  .  .  ." 

He  forgot  what  he  had  been  saying,  and 
searched  for  it  piteously.  He  sprang  up,  and 
paced  the  four  steps  each  way  that  his  chain 
allowed  him. 

"There,  there,  pa!  I'll  come  feed  you 
your  supper  now,"  Mrs.  Folts  soothed  him. 

But  while  she  fed  him,  she  was  called  away 
to  the  door,  and  thrust  the  dish  into  Lory's 
hand,  and  went.  The  old  man,  seeing  the 
dish  recede,  burst  into  savage  grunting.  The 
Inger  took  the  plate  from  Lory,  and  sat 
beside  him  on  the  settle. 

The  old  man  ate  —  the  Inger  never  forgot 
how.  With  his  eyes  immovably  fixed  on  the 


HEART'S  KINDRED  165 

Inger's  face,  he  crept  cautiously  forward  to 
meet  the  spoon,  and  when  he  had  the  con 
tents  safe,  drew  back  like  a  dog  to  his  corner, 
with  those  strange  grunting  breaths. 

"Poor  old  fellow!"  the  Inger  tried  to  say, 
softly  —  and  the  grunting  mounted  to  a 
snarl. 

When  they  had  fed  him,  the  Inger  drew 
Lory  out  into  the  quiet  of  the  little  garden. 

"You  can't  stand  that,"  he  said.  "I 
won't  have  you  stand  that.  You've  got  to 
get  some  place  an'  get  out  o'  this." 

She  looked  down  the  dusk  of  the  garden, 
and  he  was  surprised  to  see  that  she  was 
smiling  a  little. 

"You  don't  know,"  she  said.  "With  that— 
or  hard  work  —  or  anything  else  —  I'll  always 
think  it's  heaven  to  what  I  thought  had  to 
happen." 

''You  mean  Inch?"  he  comprehended. 

"I  mean  Bunchy,"  she  said. 

She  moved  down  the  path,  and  following 
her  for  a  step  or  two,  he  noted  the  dress  she 


166  HEART'S  KINDRED 

was  wearing,  and  the  tan  of  her  neck,  and  her 
arms  in  their  thin  sleeves. 

"That's  the  dress  you  had  on  that  day  in 
the  desert,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "It's  almost  the 
only  dress  I've  got,"  she  added. 

He  fell  to  wondering  whether  it  would 
be  possible  for  her  ever  to  forgive  him 
now,  and  come  to  him,  and  whether  it 
could  ever  be  as  it  might  have  been. 
Sometime,  perhaps,  when  he  came  back 
from  the  war  —  if  he  came.  ...  It  was 
on  his  lips  to  make  her  know.  But  al 
ways  the  memory  of  the  night  on  the 
trail  swept  him.  "I  didn't  know  no  woman 
I  could  tell  —  nor  no  other  decent  man." 
And  then.  .  .  . 

She  stood  still,  looking  back  at  the  house. 

"I  wanted,"  she  said,  "to  get  that  news 
paper.  Did  you  see  what  it  said  about 
women  —  about  who's  here?" 

He  had  not  seen,  but  he  would  not  let  her 
go  back  to  the  kitchen,  nor  would  he  go  him- 


HEART'S  KINDRED  167 

self.  They  went  round  the  house,  and  found 
a  newstand,  and  sat  over  a  little  table  in  an 
ice-cream  place. 

"Many  Women  Arrive  in  Capital,"  the 
headlines  said.  "Large  Number  of  Women 
Arrivals  at  Hotels.  Conjecture  Washington 
May  Become  Shopping  Centre  of  the  East." 

"We  noticed  this  morning  —  we  said  so 
this  morning,"  Lory  remembered. 

"I  guess  it  just  happened  so,"  the  Inger 
said.  "You've  all  come  buying  good  clothes, 
I  bet." 

She  did  not  smile,  but  sat  looking  across  the 
room.  The  wife  of  the  soda  fountain  man 
and  two  women  from  outside  leaned  there, 
talking. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  funny,"  Lory  said,  "if  the 
women  all  come  here  the  way  I  come  — 
unexpected?" 

He  did  not  hear  her.  He  was  reading 
eagerly  down  the  first  column  of  the  page: 

"Answer     Still     Delayed.     Presi 
dent  Not  Yet  Ready  to  Give  Out 


168  HEART'S  KINDRED 

Statement.  Mass  Meeting  Resolu 
tions  produce  Profound  Effect.  For 
eign  Pressure  Increasing.  Ail- 
Night  Cabinet  Meeting  Likely — " 

"Lord  Heavens,"  cried  the  Inger,  "why 
don't  they  light  in  an'  smash  'em  —  like 
men?'9 

She  did  not  hear  him.  The  three  women 
in  the  corner  were  looking  at  her  curiously, 
and  she  wondered  why.  As  she  walked  by 
them  toward  the  door,  she  thought  that  she 
heard  one  of  them  whisper : 

"She  don't  know!" 

When  she  reached  the  door,  she  turned 
back  and  looked  at  them. 

"Do  you  live  near?"  the  proprietor's  wife 
asked  her. 

"Just  since  to-day,"  the  girl  said.  "I  just 
come  —  from  California." 

"  Oh  ! "  the  woman  comprehended.  "  Come 
in  again  —  soon."  And  something  else  she 
added  that  sounded  like  "To-morrow  —  may 
be?" 


HEART'S  KINDRED  169 

Lory  nodded  and  they  went  out. 

"The  whole  place  seems  to  be  waitin'  for 
somethin',"  the  Inger  was  saying.  "Why 
don't  they  jump  in  —  why  don't  they  jump 
in?" 

The  girl  was  not  listening.  She  was  look 
ing  at  the  groups  of  women  in  the  doorways. 

The  two  walked  back  to  the  chubby 
house.  It  was  frowning,  for  there  were  no 
lights  in  its  windows,  save  a  glimmer 
from  the  kitchen  where  the  gas  jet  always 
burned. 

"Not  out  there,"  said  the  Inger,  as  they 
went  in  the  dark  passage.  "Don't  let's  go 
where  the  old  man  is." 

"I  can  hear  talking,"  Lory  said  only,  and 
threw  open  the  kitchen  door. 

The  supper  table  was  still  covered,  with 
its  litter  of  dishes.  On  the  settle  the  old 
man  was  lying,  with  his  head  lifted,  watching. 
Beside  the  stove  sat  the  Inger 's  father  and 
Bunchy  Haight.  No  one  else  was  in  the 
room. 


VIII 

THE  Inger  stepped  in  front  of  Lory,  and, 
before  the  others  turned,  wheeled  to  face 
her. 

"Go  get  your  aunt  here,"  he  said,  under 
his  voice,  and,  as  she  retreated,  closed  the 
passage  door  upon  her.  Then  he  turned  to 
the  room. 

"Wefl,  Dad!"  he  cried.  "Well,  Bunchy! 
Better  have  another  stick  or  two  on  the  fire, 
hadn't  we?"  he  offered. 

While  the  Inger  followed  his  own  sugges 
tion,  Bunchy  watched  him,  lowering.  But 
the  Inger's  father  began  to  talk. 

"Bunchy  was  comin'  along  here  —  he  was 
comin'  along,"  he  explained,  "so  I  thought 
I'd  come  along  too.  I  thought  I  better 
come  along  too  — " 

His  son  glanced  at  him  keenly,  wondering 
at  his  uncertain  manner.  As  the  stove  door 

170 


HEART'S  KINDRED  171 

closed,  the  Inger  inquired  with  perfect  inter 
est : 

"How'd  you  find  the  place  —  go  to 
Chicago?" 

"Yes,  damn  you,"  said  Bunchy,  suddenly, 
and  rose,  and  without  warning  threw  himself 
upon  tl  j  Inger. 

It  took  longer  than  one  would  have  thought, 
for  though  the  Inger  was  physically  fit  and 
Bunchy  was  flabby  and  overfed,  he  had  the 
strength  of  blind  anger.  It  cost  a  distinct 
effort  for  the  Inger  to  throw  him.  He  went 
down  with  his  head  on  the  zinc,  and  the 
Inger,  with  his  knee  on  his  chest  and  his  hand 
on  his  throat,  took  breath  and  regarded  him. 
Bunchy's  little  eyes  looked  up  at  him  like  the 
eyes  of  a  trapped  wolf.  His  thick,  raw  lips 
were  working. 

A  profound,  ungoverned  sense  of  hatred 
and  loathing  filled  the  Inger.  Here  was  a 
creature,  vile  and  sordid,  to  whom  Lory 
Moor  was  to  have  been  given  over,  and  who 
was  come  now  seeking  his  prey.  He  seemed 


172  HEART'S  KINDRED 

unspeakable,  he  seemed,  by  all  the  decencies,  a 
thing  of  which  to  rid  the  earth.  The  Inger 
shrank  from  his  contact  with  him,  from  his 
hand  on  that  smooth,  puffy  throat.  He  felt 
for  him  all  the  "just"  horror  of  which  he  was 
capable,  and,  superadded,  an  intense  physical 
abomination.  All  this  swept  him  and  pos 
sessed  him  and  emptied  him  of  every  other 
feeling. 

Then  the  Inger  became  conscious  that 
above  the  sound  of  their  shuffling  and  breath 
ing,  another  sound  had  been  growing  which 
now  filled  the  room.  It  was  a  dreadful, 
guttural  breathing,  unlike  that  of  a  man  in 
strife,  but  rather  like  that  of  an  animal  at 
its  feeding. 

The  Inger  threw  up  his  head  and  looked. 
Close  by  his  shoulder,  as  he  knelt  there  be 
side  the  cooking-range,  the  madman  was 
leaning,  watching.  Only  now,  instead  of  the 
immovable  eyes,  his  were  eyes  which  blazed 
and  gleamed  with  a  look  unimaginable.  And 
the  sound  that  filled  the  room  was  the  old 


HEART'S  KINDRED  173 

man's  guttural  breath,  and  with  every  breath, 
words,  half  articulate,  were  mingled : 

"Kill  'im.  Kill  'im.  Kill  'im.  Kill  'im," 
he  was  saying.  That  was  all  —  the  words 
did  not  vary,  nor  the  ghastly  tone,  nor  the 
dreadful  breathing.  "Kill  'im.  Kill  'im. 
Kill  'im." 

His  long,  freckled  hands  were  outspread 
and  trembling.  His  back  was  crooked  and 
his  head  thrust  forward.  His  hair  fell  about 
his  face.  He  stepped  here  and  there,  as  he 
could,  his  leg  chain  clanking.  And  he  said 
over  his  fearful  chant,  like  an  invocation  to 
some  devil. 

And  the  Inger,  who  was  feeling  the  same 
rage,  looked  in  the  old  madman's  eyes,  and 
the  two  understood  each  other. 

All  the  horror  which  the  sane  man  had  felt 
at  the  beast  in  the  other,  stared  from  the 
Inger's  eyes,  as  he  looked.  And  abruptly  he 
was  wrenched  with  horror  of  the  beast  in  him 
self.  With  a  sense  of  weakness,  as  at  the  going 
out  of  something  which  seemed  to  drain  his 


174  HEART'S  KINDRED 

veins,  to  abandon  his  body  like  a  great  breath 
from  his  pores,  he  took  his  eyes  away  from  that 
face. 

He  relaxed  his  hold  on  Bunchy  and  rose. 

"Get  up,"  he  said  to  him,  and  looked  away 
from  him. 

Bunchy  scrambled  to  his  feet,  amazed, 
blinking,  pulling  at  his  collar,  casting  sidewise 
glances  of  vehement  suspicion.  The  Inger 
merely  stood  there,  not  looking  at  him. 

"Listen  here,"  said  the  Inger,  in  a  moment. 
"The  girl  is  here  with  her  folks.  If  ever  the 
time  comes  when  she'll  marry  me,  God  knows 
I  want  her.  But  for  now,  I'm  out  of  your 
way.  You  can  deal  with  her  and  her  folks, 
for  all  of  me.  Understand?" 

Considering  the  Inger's  obvious  advantage, 
Bunchy  by  no  means  understood.  His  look 
said  so.  Neither  was  the  Inger's  father  at 
all  comprehending.  In  his  father's  face  the 
genial  kindness  and  the  settled  sadness  had 
given  place  to  a  contagion  of  rage  and  passion. 
The  Inger  had  never  seen  his  father  like  this. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  175 

Even  in  that  moment,  this  look  on  the  kind, 
careless  face  filled  the  son  with  sick  surprise. 
The  old  man  by  the  settle,  who  had  stood 
staring  at  this  strange  turn  of  things,  broke 
into  a  plaintive  whimper. 

"Kill  'im  —  kill  'im  —  kill  'im  ..."  he 
besought,  like  a  disappointed,  teasing  child. 

When  Bunchy  would  have  spoken,  splut 
tering,  he  was  arrested  by  a  sound  at  the  door. 
It  was  Lory  and  her  aunt,  whom  she  had  found 
in  talk  with  women  at  a  neighbor's ;  and  it  was 
Hiram  Folts,  whom,  returning,  they  had  met 
at  the  street  door.  The  Inger  greeted  them 
gravely. 

"You  meet  my  father,"  he  said,  and  named 
them.  "And  you  meet,"  he  said,  "Mr. 
Bunchy  Haight." 

Mrs.  Folts  stared.  Not  one  of  all  her  gifts 
was  a  gift  for  diplomacy. 

"Why,  ain't  that  the  man  —  ain't  that  the 
name  — "  she  recalled  it,  and  met  the  Inger 's 
nod,  and  saw  the  look  on  Lory's  face,  and 
instantly  reacted  in  her  own  way.  "My 


176  HEART'S  KINDRED 

gracious,"  she  said,  "have  you  had  your 
suppers?" 

Bunchy,  replying  with  labored  elegance, 
fain  to  be  his  gallant  best  to  Lory's  aunt,  fain 
to  look  beseechingly  and  reproachfully  at 
Lory,  and  fain  to  glower  heartily  at  his 
enemy,  became  a  writhing  Bunchy,  demean 
ing  himself  with  ample  absurdity. 

The  Inger  was  merely  silent.  In  a  moment, 
he  took  his  leave  and,  as  he  went,  he  turned 
to  Lory. 

"If  you  want  me,"  he  said,  "send  for  me. 
I'll  be  waitin'  there  in  the  room  I  got." 

She  made  no  answer.  She  had  been  like 
some  one  stricken  since  first  she  had  seen  who 
was  in  the  room. 

"You'll  do  it?"  he  persisted,  grateful  for 
Hiram  Folt's  nervous  fire  of  questions  at  his 
new  guest. 

She  met  his  eyes  and,  for  an  instant,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  she  gave  him  her  eyes,  as 
she  had  done  that  morning  on  the  desert. 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "I'll  do  it." 


HEART'S  KINDRED  177 

The  last  sound  that  he  heard  as  he  went 
down  the  passage  with  his  father  was  the 
fretful  whining  of  the  madman :, 

"Kill  'im  —  kill  'im  —  kill  'im.  .  .  ." 
Out  on  the  street  the  Inger  looked  at  the 
stretch  of  asphalt  pavement,  the  even  fronts 
of  the  houses,  the  lights  set  a  certain  space 
apart,  and  he  looked  in  the  faces  of  men  and 
women  walking  home  with  parcels.  All  these 
were  so  methodical  and  quiet  that  they  made 
it  seem  impossible  that  he  had  just  wanted  to 
kill  a  man.  All  this  scene  was  arranged  and 
ordered,  and  what  he  had  done  had  been  — 
disorderly.  He  thought  of  the  word  as  he  had 
often  seen  it  in  the  Inch  Weekly:  "arrested 
for  being  disorderly."  That  was  it,  of  course ; 
and  here  the  buildings  were  as  they  had  been 
appointed,  and  the  lights  were  set  a  certain 
space  apart.  .  .  .  But  he  had  not  killed  the 
man !  And  he  was  doing  the  way  all  the 
others  were  doing.  He  and  his  father  were 
walking  here,  like  all  the  others.  This 
seemed  wonderful.  He  looked  at  the  lights 


178  HEART'S  KINDRED 

and  at  the  buildings  as  if  he  understood 
them. 

He  noticed  that  his  father  was  trembling. 
At  a  crosswalk  he  caught  gropingly  at  his 
son's  arm. 

"We'll  have  some  victuals,"  said  the  Inger, 
and  led  him  to  a  little  restaurant.  His  father 
followed  obediently;  but  the  food  they  set 
before  him  remained  untouched.  He  sat  there 
weakly,  drank  cold  water,  and  assented  eagerly 
when  the  Inger  suggested  that  he  go  to  bed. 

In  the  Inger's  little  room  he  sank  on  the 
edge  of  the  single  bed,  and  the  Inger  was  un 
speakably  shocked  to  see  him  cry. 

"What,  Dad?"  he  could  only  say  over 
uncomfortably.  "  What  ?  " 

"I  wish't  I  could  'a'  settled  with  him,"  his 
father  said.  "I  wish't  I  could  'a'  settled  one 
varmint  before  I  die." 

"What'd  you  want  to  muss  with  him  for?" 
he  inquired  impatiently. 

"Because  I  ain't  never  done  much  of  any 
thing  that  was  much  of  anything,"  the  old 


HEART'S  KINDRED  179 

man  said.  He  straightened  himself.  "An* 
I  could  of  did  this!"  he  added  with  abrupt 
energy. 

The  Inger  studied  him  intently.  The  great 
rugged  bones  of  the  older  man  and  the  big, 
thick,  ineffectual  hands  suddenly  spoke  to 
him,  out  of  the  deep  of  this  undirected  life. 
They  had  wanted  to  act  —  those  bones  and 
those  hands ! 

"He  wasn't  worth  the  powder,"  the  Inger 
said,  but  he  was  not  thinking  of  what  he  said. 
He  was  staring  at  the  tears  rolling  down  the 
old  man's  face.  "Get  to  bed  —  get  to  bed, 
Dad,"  he  kept  insisting. 

But  first  his  father  would  tell  him,  in  frag 
ments,  disjointed,  pieced  together  by  the 
Inger's  guesses,  how  his  presence  there  had 
come  about. 

Before  daylight  on  the  night  of  the  Inger's 
departure,  his  father  had  been  roused  by 
Bunchy  and  two  of  his  friends  arriving  at  the 
hut.  Questioned,  the  old  man  had  had 
nothing  to  tell  them.  His  son  had  gone  to  the 


180  HEART'S  KINDRED 

wedding,  that  was  all  he  knew.  Still,  his 
son  was  unmistakably  missing  now,  and  the 
absence  was  the  clue  on  which  Bunchy  had 
worked  all  that  day.  On  the  morning  of  the 
second  day,  the  messenger  had  come  riding 
over  from  the  ticket  agent  beyond  Whiteface, 
and  had  spread  in  the  bars  of  Inch  the  tale  of 
the  manner  of  the  Inger's  purchase  of  two 
tickets  to  Chicago.  As  soon  as  he  heard,  the 
old  man,  having  done  his  son's  bidding  at  the 
bank  in  Inch,  had  sought  out  Bunchy,  found 
him  leaving  on  the  Limited,  and  abruptly 
resolved  to  travel  with  him  —  "So's  to  keep 
my  eye  on  the  bugger,"  he  said.  Here  he 
began  to  retell  it  all,  and  to  fit,  in  wrong 
places,  some  account  of  Bunchy's  doings  on 
the  journey  and  of  their  half  day  in  Chicago. 
"He's  a  bugger  —  a  bad  bugger,"  the  old 
man  repeated  fretfully,  "only  he's  worse'n 
that,  if  I  could  think  .  .  ." 

By  all  this  and  by  the  nerveless  movements 
and  the  obvious  weakness  of  his  father,  a  fact 
gradually  returned  to  the  Inger : 


HEART'S  KINDRED  181 

"Dad  !"  he  cried.  "You  said  you  was  sick 
the  night  you  come  to  the  hut.  Ain't  that 
over?" 

It  appeared  that  it  was  by  no  means  "over" 
—  the  sickness  of  which  the  older  man  had 
complained.  To  the  Inger,  sickness  meant 
so  little  in  experience  that  he  was  unable  to 
take  it  seriously  in  any  one  else.  In  all 
these  days,  he  had  not  once  recalled  his 
father's  mention  that  he  was  ailing.  He 
was  swept  by  his  compunction.  Against  the 
old  man's  protest,  he  called  a  doctor.  And 
the  doctor,  after  his  examination,  left  what 
he  could,  and,  when  the  Inger  emphatically 
refused  to  have  a  nurse  sent,  unexpectedly 
announced  that  he  would  look  in  again 
toward  morning. 

When,  almost  at  once,  his  father  had  fallen 
asleep  in  the  little  single  bed,  the  Inger 
turned  out  the  light,  drew  the  shade  to  the 
top  of  the  window,  and  stood  staring  across 
the  roofs.  Against  the  sky  rose  the  dome  of 
the  Capitol,  pricked  with  a  thousand  lights. 


182  HEART'S  KINDRED 

He  breathed  deep,  and  abruptly  he  under 
stood  that  here  in  the  darkness,  alone,  he  was 
feeling  an  elation  which  was  to  him  unac 
countable.  Something  tremendous  seemed  to 
have  happened  to  him.  What  was  it?  He 
did  not  know.  His  father  was  ill  —  Bunchy 
was  here  —  Lory  Moor  was  in  trouble  —  he 
was  haunted  by  the  image  of  that  mad  old 
man.  And  yet  his  whole  being  was  per 
vaded  by  a  sense  of  lightness,  of  gratification, 
of  sheer  energy  such  as  he  never  had  known. 
For  an  hour  he  stood  there,  and  he  could  not 
have  told  what  he  had  been  thinking.  Only 
something  unspeakable  seemed  to  have  oc 
curred,  which  kept  him  from  sleep. 

He  did  sleep  at  last,  rolled  in  his  blanket 
and  lying  on  the  floor.  But  he  was  awake, 
and  had  ministered  to  his  father,  and  below, 
on  the  doorstep,  stood  stretching  prodig 
iously,  when  in  the  crisp  morning,  the  doctor 
came  back.  As  the  doctor  left,  he  drew  the 
Inger  down  the  stairs  again.  They  spoke 
together  in  the  little  passage,  in  the  light  that 


HEART'S  KINDRED  183 

came  through  the  orange  glass  over  the  door. 
His  father  had,  by  a  miracle,  lived  to  reach 
him.  Any  hour  of  that  day  might  be  his 
last  hour. 

The  Inger  went  back  upstairs,  and  stared 
at  his  father.  Impossible.  He  had  been 
living  for  so  long.  There  was  so  much  that 
he  himself  remembered  having  been  told  of 
this  man's  youth  and  young  manhood.  It 
was  incredible  that  now  he  should  die,  and 
no  one  would  remember  these  things  any 
more.  .  .  .  There  had  been  one  story  about 
his  buying  an  eagle  somewhere,  and  setting 
it  free.  The  Inger  had  always  liked  to  hear 
that  story.  .Now  it  would  close  over,  and  no 
one  else  would  know.  This  alone  seemed 
intolerable. 

He  went  downstairs,  and  out  on  the  street. 
At  the  next  house  a  blind  man  lived.  This 
man  took  his  little  walk  every  day.  The 
walk  consisted  of  six  paces  from  the  house  to 
the  street,  and  six  paces  back  again.  On  the 
street  he  dared  not  go.  Here  in  the  yard  he 


184  HEART'S  KINDRED 

could  encounter  nothing.  To  guide  his  course 
he  dragged  his  stick  on  the  edge  of  the  bricks. 
In  this  way  he  could  walk  very  briskly,  al 
most  as  a  man  might  walk  on  a  street.  The 
Inger  watched  him.  Something  in  himself 
seemed  to  go  out  of  him  and  to  make  its  way 
to  that  blind  man. 

"Sometime,"  he  thought,  "I'll  go  and  take 
him  for  a  walk  —  afterward." 

That  day  all  Washington,  and  with  it  all 
the  country,  stood  on  its  doorstep,  awaiting 
the  newspapers.  But  when  the  boys  first 
came  crying  the  headlines,  the  Inger  let  them 
go  by.  He  had  a  vague  sense  of  wishing  not 
to  be  interrupted.  Toward  noon,  however, 
a  phrase  caught  from  a  street  call  lured  him 
down.  One  of  the  newspapers  which  batten 
on  bad  news,  playing  it  up,  making  it  worse, 
contradicting  it  for  another  price,  came  to  his 
hand.  This  paper  announced  that  the  United 
States  would  that  day  positively  declare  war 
on  the  offending  nation.  Even  then  the  news 
paper's  presses  were  methodically  at  work  on 


HEART'S  KINDRED  185 

a  denial,  but  this  the  Inger  did  not  know. 
He  sat  staring  at  what  he  read.  So,  then,  it 
had  come.  So,  then,  he  was  really  to  go  to 
war.  .  .  .  There  was  something,  too,  about 
a  great  meeting  of  women  in  the  Capitol. 
To  this,  save  the  headlines  and  the  snapshots 
of  women  which  covered  an  inside  page,  he 
did  not  attend.  "Sob  Session  Probable," 
he  read,  and  wondered  what  it  meant. 

His  father  still  slept,  and,  watching  by  his 
bed,  he  himself  grew  drowsy.  He  lay  down  on 
his  blanket  on  the  floor.  This  was  a  strange 
thing,  to  lie  down  to  sleep  in  the  day  time. 
He  looked  up  at  the  high  walls  of  his  tiny  room. 
The  side  walls  were  larger  than  the  floor  — 
as  the  walls  of  a  grave  would  be  —  he  thought. 
His  father  stirred  and  whimpered. 

"Oh  my  God  —  my  God  —  my  God  .  .  ." 
he  said,  but  he  did  not  wake.  This  he  said 
over  many  times. 

At  last  the  Inger  dozed,  with  a  preliminary 
sense  of  sinking,  and  of  struggling  not  to  let 
himself  go.  In  his  dream  he  went  with  his 


186  HEART'S  KINDRED 

father  on  an  immense  empty  field.  There 
they  were  looking  for  the  others,  and  they 
could  see  no  one.  They  walked  for  a  long 
way,  looking  for  the  others.  Then  these 
others  were  all  about  them,  and  they  were 
marching,  and  it  seemed  very  natural  that 
there  should  be  war.  At  any  moment  now, 
there  would  be  war.  So  they  marched  and 
stood  face  to  face  with  those  whom  they  were 
sent  to  fight.  And  a  sense  of  sickening 
horror  shook  him  in  his  dream  —  for  those 
whom  they  faced  were  women.  The  women 
were  coming,  and  they  had  only  their  bare 
hands.  Tossed  by  a  tide  of  ancestral  fear,  he 
understood  that  among  those  women  was 
Lory  Moor.  He  shouted  to  her  to  go  away 
—  but  instead  they  all  came  on,  steadily,  all 
those  women  —  and  he  could  not  tell  where 
she  walked,  and  every  one  said  that  the  orders 
were  to  fire.  Caught  and  wrenched  by  the 
fear  that  never  lives,  any  more,  among  waking 
men,  he  lived  the  dead  passion  of  fear  in  his 
sleep,  and  woke,  wasted  by  his  horror. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  187 

He  struggled  up  and  looked  at  his  father. 

"Oh  my  God  ...  my  God  ...  my  God," 
his  weak  voice  was  going  on. 

And  from  the  floor  beside  him  the  black 
headlines  of  the  lying  paper  stared  : 

"U.  S.  To  Declare  War  To-Day. " 

The  Inger  slept  again,  and  this  time  the 
clamor  and  crashing  of  the  thing  were 
upon  him.  This  now  was  war  —  but  not 
as  he  had  imagined  it.  He  was  in  no  ex 
citement,  no  enthusiasm,  even  no  horror. 
He  was  merely  looking  for  a  chance  to  kill  — 
keenly,  methodically,  looking  for  a  chance  to 
kill.  In  the  ranks  beside  him  was  that  old 
madman  from  the  kitchen  —  but  there  was  no 
time  even  to  think  of  this.  They  were  all 
very  busy.  Then  it  grew  dark,  and  the  field 
went  swimming  out  in  stars,  and  many  voices 
came  calling  and  these  met  where  he  was : 

"God  — God  — they've  killed  God  .  .  ." 
the  voices  cried. 

Again  the  nameless  terror  shook  him.   What 


188  HEART'S  KINDRED 

if  he  had  been  the  one  to  kill  God  ?  He 
sought  wildly  among  piles  of  the  dead  to  find 
God,  and  he  was  not  found.  Then  many 
came  and  touched  him  and  stared  in  his  face, 
and  he  understood  them.  God  had  not  been 
killed  at  all.  He  himself  was  God  and  he  had 
been  killing  men.  .  .  . 

At  this  the  terror  that  was  on  him  was  like 
nothing  that  he  had  ever  known.  It  took 
him  and  tore  him,  and  he  writhed  under  a 
nameless  sense  of  the  irreparable,  which  ate 
at  him,  living.  When  he  awoke,  he  lay 
weakly  grateful  that  the  thing  was  not  true. 
Something  swam  through  his  head,  and  he 
tried  to  capture  it  —  was  it  true  ?  Was  he 
God?  He  struggled  up  and  sat  with  his 
head  in  his  hands.  There  were  things  that 
he  wanted  to  think,  if  he  had  known  how  to 
think  then. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  end 
came  to  his  father,  quietly,  and  with  no  pain. 
His  father  knew  him,  smiled  at  him,  and  with 
perfect  gentleness  and  without  shyness,  put 


HEART'S  KINDRED  189 

out  his  hand.  Save  in  a  handshake,  he  had 
never  taken  his  hand  before  since  he  was  a 
little  boy.  But  now  they  took  each  other's 
hands  naturally,  as  if  a  veil  had  gone.  After 
ward,  the  Inger  wondered  why  he  had  not 
kissed  him.  He  had  not  thought  of  that. 

Before  he  called  any  one,  the  Inger  stood 
still,  looking  at  his  father,  and  looking  out  the 
window  to  the  City.  So  much  had  happened. 
A  great  deal  of  what  had  happened  he  un 
derstood,  but  there  was  much  more  that 
seemed  to  be  pressing  on  him  to  be  made 
clear.  He  had  a  strong  sense  of  being  some 
one  else,  of  standing  outside  and  watching. 
What  great  change  was  this  that  had  come 
to  his  father  and  to  him  ? 

By  dark  they  had  taken  his  father  away. 
The  Inger  went  with  him  and  did  what  he 
could.  His  father  lay  in  an  undertaker's 
chapel.  From  the  street  the  Inger  stared  at 
the  chapel.  It  looked  so  strangely  like  the 
other  buildings. 

He  took  back  to  his  room  some  poor  be- 


190  HEART'S  KINDRED 

longings  of  his  father's,  and  when  he  saw  the 
little  room,  and  the  empty  unmade  bed,  he 
was  shaken  by  a  draining  sense  of  loneliness  — 
the  first  loneliness  that  he  had  ever  known. 
Then  he  let  his  thought  go  where  all  day  it 
had  longed  to  go.  He  wanted  Lory  Moor. 

He  let  himself  go  round  by  the  little  house 
of  the  Folts's.  It  was  quite  dark,  save  for  that 
watching  light  in  the  kitchen  window.  He 
waited  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  for  a 
long  time.  No  one  came.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  one  in  the  neighborhood.  A  little  dog 
came  by,  looked  up  at  him,  and  stood  wag 
ging  a  ragged  tail.  The  Inger  stooped,  then 
squatted  beside  the  dog,  and  patted  his  head. 

"I  must  get  a  dog,"  he  thought.  "I'd 
ought  to  have  a  dog." 

At  last  he  went  away,  down  toward  the 
town.  And  as  he  went,  darkness  seemed  to 
close  in  and  press  about  him.  His  hands 
were  empty.  His  life  was  something  other 
than  that  which  he  had  believed  it  to  be. 
Where  was  all  this  that  he  had  had.  .  , 


IX 

As  he  turned  into  a  wider  street,  he  became 
aware  that  he  was  following  with  many  who 
went  one  way.  He  kept  on  with  them, 
intent  on  nothing.  On  Pennsylvania  Avenue 
the  crowd  was  going  east,  and  he  went  east. 
But  of  all  this  he  thought  little,  until  he  came 
near  the  Capitol.  There  the  people  swung 
both  east  and  west,  and  rounded  the  building. 
So  he  came  out  in  the  Square  before  the  east 
entrance. 

The  Square  was  filled  with  women.  There 
were  some  men,  too,  but  women  were  domi 
nant  in  the  throng.  He  remembered  the 
meeting  to  which  the  papers  had  vaguely 
referred  and  because  he  had  nothing  to  do, 
he  moved  on  with  the  rest  to  the  doors. 

He  noted  that  the  women  were  saying 
little.  It  was  almost  a  silent  throng,  as  if  all 
were  immeasurably  absorbed  in  something. 

191 


192  HEART'S  KINDRED 

Oddly,  he  thought  of  Mrs.  Folts,  and  her 
absorption  in  food  for  her  family  and  her 
guests. 

He  was  in  time  to  find  room  on  the  steps 
and  then  within  the  rotunda.  He  stared 
about  him.  This  looked  different  from  all 
other  buildings  that  he  had  seen  —  as  if 
great  things  were  due  to  happen  here.  He 
pressed  on  slowly,  as  the  others  pressed. 
Eventually  the  elevators  received  them,  and 
he  found  himself  in  an  enormous  room,  the 
seats  of  the  floor  already  filled,  the  galleries 
fast  filling.  He  stood  against  the  wall  and 
looked.  Below  and  above  a  throng  of  women, 
and  only  here  and  there  a  man.  It  occurred 
to  him  at  last  that  he  did  not  belong  here,  but 
now  he  could  not  well  retreat,  for  the  crowd 
blocked  the  doors. 

On  the  platform  were  a  dozen  women.  He 
looked  at  them  curiously.  He  was  familiar 
with  but  one  sort  of  woman  who  was  willing 
to  show  herself  before  a  crowd.  There  flashed 
to  his  mind  the  memory  of  the  dozen  women 


HEART'S  KINDRED  193 

whom  he  had  seen  on  the  stage  of  the  Mission 
Saloon  in  Inch,  on  what  was  to  have  been 
Bunchy's  wedding  night.  Dress  them  like 
this,  he  reflected  —  dark  and  plain  —  and 
they  wouldn't  look  so  different,  at  this 
distance. 

The  silence  disturbed  him.  What  on  earth 
made  them  so  still  —  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of 
life  and  death,  whatever  they  were  meeting 
about.  He  waited  in  absorbing  curiosity  to 
hear  what  it  was  they  were  going  to  say. 

"Somebody  says  the  Senate's  full,  too,"  he 
heard  a  man  tell  some  one.  "And  they're 
going  to  speak  in  the  rotunda  and  on  the 
steps." 

The  Inger  turned  to  him. 

"What's  this  room?"  he  asked. 

"This  is  the  House,"  the  man  replied, 
courteously. 

The  Inger  looked  with  new  eyes.  The 
House  .  .  .  where  his  laws  were  made.  He 
felt  a  sudden  surprised  sense  of  pride  in  the 
room. 


194  HEART'S  KINDRED 

The  silence  became  a  hush,  contagious,  elec 
tric,  and  he  saw  that  a  woman  on  the  plat 
form  had  risen.  She  stood  hatless,  her  hair 
brushed  smoothly  back,  and  her  hands  be 
hind  her.  Abruptly  he  liked  her.  And  he 
wondered  what  his  mother  had  looked  like. 

There  was  no  applause,  but  to  his  amaze 
ment  the  whole  audience  rose,  and  stood  for 
a  moment,  in  absolute  silence.  This  woman 
spoke  simply,  and  as  if  she  were  talking  to 
each  one  there.  It  astonished  the  man.  He 
had  heard  no  one  address  a  meeting  save  in 
campaign  speeches,  and  this  was  not  like 
those. 

"The  fine  moral  reaction,"  she  said,  "has 
at  last  come.  It  has  come  in  a  remorse  too 
tardy  to  reclaim  all  the  human  life  that  has 
been  spent.  It  has  come  in  a  remorse  too 
tardy  to  reclaim  the  treasure  that  has  been 
wasted.  But  it  comes  too  with  a  sense  of 
joy  that  all  voluntary  destruction  of  human 
life,  all  the  deliberate  wasting  of  the  fruits  of 
labor,  will  soon  have  become  things  of  the 


HEART'S  KINDRED  195 

past.  Whatever  the  future  holds  for  us,  it 
will  at  least  be  free  from  war."  1 

Of  this  the  Inger  understood  nothing. 
What  could  she  be  talking  about,  when  the 
United  States  was  to  go  to  war  at  once? 

"...  it  is  because  women  understand  that 
this  is  so,  that  we  have  been  able  so  to  come 
together.  Not  a  month  ago  the  word  went 
out.  Yet  every  state  in  the  United  States 
is  represented  here  in  Washington  to-day  by 
from  one  to  five  hundred  women.  And  no 
one  has  talked  about  it.  No  one  has  won 
dered  or  speculated.  We  are  here  because 
the  time  has  come." 

And  now  the  Inger  thought  he  understood. 
They  were  here  to  help !  The  time  had 
come  —  war  was  here  —  they  had  come  here 
to  be  ready,  to  collect  supplies,  to  make 
bandages.  .  .  . 

"...  seven  women  from  seven  of  the 
warring  nations  of  Europe,"  the  quiet  voice 
went  on,  "and  women  of  the  other  states  of 

1  Jane  Addams :  "  Newer  Ideals  of  Peace." 


196  HEART'S  KINDRED 

Europe  answered  our  appeal,  and  they  are 
here.  They  will  speak  to  us  to-night  —  and 
they  are  to  go  from  state  to  state,  helping 
all  women  to  understand." 

Women  from  the  warring  nations !  The 
Inger  looked  eagerly.  They  had  been  there, 
they  had  seen,  they  had  cheered  their  hus 
bands  and  sons.  Some  of  them  must  have 
lost  their  men  —  of  course  they  could  tell  the 
American  women  what  to  do. 

The  first  woman,  however,  was  not  of  a 
warring  country.  She  was  a  woman  of  Den 
mark.  And  she  was  of  the  same  quiet  manner 
and  conversational  speech. 

She  said:  "During  the  first  day  of  the 
war  an  old  man  said  to  me,  sad  and  indignant : 
'To  me  it  is  quite  unintelligible  that  citizens 
of  the  twentieth  century  consent  to  be  driven 
like  sheep  to  the  shambles/  And  truly,  only 
a  fraction  of  those  involved  in  the  war  did 
intend  the  war.  To  them  and  to  us  it  was  a 
surprise  that  will  repeat  itself  in  history  as 
long  as  war  is  declared  without  the  consent 


HEART'S  KINDRED  197 

of  the  people,   as  long  as  war  depends  on 
secret  notes  and  treaties. 

"Where  can  we  find  a  way  to  prevent  an 
other  happening  of  these  terrors  ?  Can  women 
possibly  have  any  chance  of  succeeding  where 
men  have  recently  failed  so  miserably  ? 

"I  came  from  Denmark  to  say  to  you  that 
women  have  better  opportunities  than  any 
body  else  for  creating  public  opinion  —  the 
opinion  that  grows  stronger  with  the  coming 
race.  Women  give  the  next  generation  its 
first  impressions. 

"And  the  mother  must  give  her  children 
another  idea  than  the  armed  warrior.  Let 
her  show  them  how  unworthy  it  is  of  the 
citizen  of  the  twentieth  century  to  be  used, 
body  and  blood,  without  will  or  resistance, 
as  food  for  cannon.  .  .  ." 1 

The  Inger  listened,  stupefied.  What  was 
this  woman  saying?  It  sounded  to  him  like 
treason  for  which  they  should  fall  on  her  and 
drive  her  from  the  hall. 

1  From  Johanne  Rambusch,  Aalborg,  Denmark. 


198  HEART'S  KINDRED 

Then  he  heard  the  country  of  the  next 
woman  who  came  forward.  Germany  !  Now 
they  would  hear  the  truth.  Here  was  a 
woman  from  a  nation  of  soldiers.  She  would 
understand,  and  she  would  make  the  rest 
know  in  what  lay  a  country's  glory.  More 
over,  she  was  a  strong  woman  —  a  woman  to 
whom  that  race  of  mothers  and  of  soldiers 
might  have  looked  as  the  mother  of  them  all. 

"Women  of  the  World,  when  will  your  call 
ring  out? 

"Women  of  all  the  belligerent  states,  with 
head  high  and  courageous  heart,  gave  their 
husbands  to  protect  the  fatherland.  Mothers 
and  maidens  unfalteringly  saw  their  sons  and 
sweethearts  go  forth  to  death  and  destruction." 

This  was  it!  The  Inger  drew  his  breath 
deep.  She  knew  —  she  knew.  .  .  .  She 
wanted  American  women  to  feel  the  same. 

"Millions  of  men  have  been  left  on  the 
battlefield.  They  will  never  see  home  again. 
Others  have  returned,  broken  and  sick  in 
body  and  soul.  Towns  of  the  highest  civili- 


HEART'S  KINDRED  199 

zation,  homes  of  simple  human  happiness,  are 
destroyed.  Europe's  soil  reeks  of  human 
blood.  The  flesh  and  blood  of  men  will  fer 
tilize  the  soil  of  the  corn  fields  of  the  future 
on  German,  French,  Belgian  and  Russian 
ground. 

"Millions  of  women's  hearts  blaze  up  in 
anguish.  No  human  speech  is  rich  enough 
to  express  such  depths  of  suffering.  Shall 
this  war  of  extermination  go  on?  Shall  we 
sit  and  wait  dumbly  for  other  wars  to  come 
upon  us? 

"Women  of  the  world,  where  is  your  voice? 

"Are  you  only  great  in  patience  and 
suffering  ? 

"The  earth  soaked  in  blood,  millions  of 
wrecked  bodies  of  husbands,  sweethearts, 
sons  —  outrages  inflicted  on  your  sex.  Can 
these  things  not  rouse  you  to  blazing  protest  ? 

"Women  of  the  world,  where  is  your  voice, 
that  should  be  sowing  seeds  of  peace?  Do 
not  let  yourselves  be  deterred  by  those  who 
accuse  you  of  weakness  because  you  wish  for 


200  HEART'S  KINDRED 

peace,  who  say  you  cannot  hold  back  the 
bloody  march  of  history  by  your  protest. 

"Protest  with  all  your  might  .  .  .  make 
preparation  for  peace  .  .  .  perform  your 
duty  as  wives  and  mothers,  as  protectors  of 
true  civilization  and  humanity  !"  l 

Still  in  that  silence,  she  ceased  —  but  now 
once  more  all  over  the  hall,  the  women  rose, 
and  stood  there  for  a  moment,  looking  into 
the  eyes  of  the  woman  of  Germany.  There 
was  no  handclapping,  there  was  no  word, 
there  was  only  that  single  sign  —  as  if  in  that 
room  there  were  but  one  Person,  and  that 
Person  answered  like  this  to  what  she  said. 

The  Inger  stared  about  him.  What  did 
this  mean?  Were  these  a  few  traitors  who 
had  come  here  to  teach  American  women  to 
play  traitor  too  — 

The  German  woman  was  speaking  again. 

"A  letter,"  she  said,  "a  letter  from  German 
and  Austrian  women,  'to  the  women  of 
England  —  and  of  the  world." 

1  From  Lida  Gustava  Heymann,  Munich. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  201 

She  read:  "Women,  creators  and  guar 
dians  of  life,  must  loathe  war,  which  de 
stroys  life.  Through  the  smoke  of  battle 
and  thunder  of  cannon  of  hostile  peoples, 
through  death,  terror,  destruction  and  unend 
ing  pain  and  anxiety,  there  glows  like  the  dawn 
of  a  coming  better  day  the  deep  community 
of  feeling  of  many  women  of  all  nations."  1 

"This  is  signed,"  she  said,  "by  one  hundred 
and  fifty  German  and  Austrian  women.  Thou 
sands  more  are  with  us  in  name  and  spirit. 
Do  not  doubt  —  doubt !" 

Another  woman  rose,  and  then  another : 
A  letter  from  the  women  of  England  — 
".  .  .  Is  it  not  our  mission  to  preserve  life  ? 
Do  not  humanity  and  common   sense  alike 
prompt  us  to  join  hands  with  the  women  of 
neutral  countries,  and  urge  the  stay  of  further 
bloodshed  —  forever  ?  .  .  .      There     is     but 
one  way   to   do   this   ...   by   Wisdom   and 
Reason.      Can    they    begin    too    soon?  .  .  . 
Already  we  seem  to  hear 

1  From  "  Letters  from  the  Women  of  the  Warring  Nations." 


202  HEART'S  KINDRED 

'A    hundred    nations    swear    that    there 

shall  be 
Pity   and   Peace   and   Love   among  the 

good  and  free.'"1 

Then  a  letter  from  the  women  of  Belgium, 
from  the  women  of  Switzerland,  from  the 
women  of  Italy  —  five  hundred,  two  thou 
sand  names  to  each. 

At  length  the  Inger  understood.  These 
women  who  were  here  to  protest  against  war 
were  speaking  for  thousands  upon  thousands 
of  women  all  over  the  world.  And  here 
were  thousands  listening,  in  the  nation's 
capitol. 

A  little  French  woman  spoke,  each  sentence 
translated  by  another  woman. 

"The  humblest  cry  can  sometimes  be 
heard  joined  to  many  others.  ...  It  is  very 
well  for  gentlemen  banqueting  at  Guildhall 
to  rejoice  at  being  able  to  assemble  so  com 
fortably  during  the  greatest  war  in  history, 
thanks  to  the  valor  of  the  British  army 
"  Letters  from  the  Women  of  the  Warring  Nations." 


HEART'S  KINDRED  203 

which  defends  the  coast;  but  they  should 
think  of  those  who  are  exposing  their  lives.  .  .  . 

"My  two  sons  are  in  the  trenches  since  the 
end  of  September,  and  have  never  slept  in  a 
bed  since.  It  would  be  nothing  if  the  cold 
had  not  set  in  so  dreadfully.  .  .  ."  l 

Something  —  no  one  could  have  told 
whether  it  was  a  breath,  or  a  look  from  one  to 
one,  went  over  the  hall.  More  than  in  a  long 
account  of  horror,  this  French  mother,  who 
spoke  no  other  tongue,  had  made  them  feel 
what  she  was  feeling. 

There  was  a  Polish  woman  of  the  country 
about  Cracow  who  told  the  story  of  what  had 
happened  to  her  village.  She  spoke  slowly, 
through  an  interpreter,  and  almost  without 
emotion. 

"We  had  just  three  little  streets,"  she  said, 
"  so  it  was  not  much  to  take.  But  they  took 
them.  ..."  And  she  told  how,  and  how  a 
hundred  children  in  the  village  had  died. 
"I  should  be  less  than  a  woman  in  courage  if 

1  Cotes  du  Nord,  France. 


204  HEART'S  KINDRED 

I  did  not  say  that  I,  for  one,  shall  not  be  silent 
even  one  day  until  my  death.  Every  day  I 
shall  be  crying,  'Women  of  the  World.  This 
can  not  happen  again,  if  we  are  women  of 
flesh  and  not  of  stone.' ' 

There  was  a  woman  of  Servia,  and  she  was 
a  peasant  woman.  Her  clothes  were  those 
which  her  neighbors  had  found  for  her.  Even 
then,  so  great  was  the  haste  at  the  last,  she 
had  crossed  the  ocean  in  a  skirt  and  a  shawl, 
but  with  no  waist  beneath  the  shawl. 

"I  had  to  come,"  she  said,  through  her 
interpreter.  "There  is  only  one  hell  worse 
than  the  hell  that  we  have  been  through: 
and  that  is  not  to  cry  to  the  last  breath  that 
it  shall  be  stopped.  That  it  shall  not  come 
again  to  other  women  like  us.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  woman  of  Belgium,  who  be 
longed  to  a  family  high  in  position  in  Lou- 
vain.  She  wore  garments  which  had  been 
given  to  her  from  the  American  boxes.  It 
was  strange  to  hear  that  soft  voice,  in  its 
broken  English,  speak  of  a  thousand  horrors 


HEART'S  KINDRED  205 

with  no  passion.  But  when  she  spoke  of 
To-morrow,  and  of  what  it  must  bring,  her 
voice  throbbed  and  strove  with  the  spirit 
which  poured  through  her. 

"Do  not  think  of  Lou  vain,"  she  said. 
"Do  not  think  of  Belgium.  Say,  if  you  like, 
that  this  was  only  a  part  of  what  happens  in 
war.  Think,  then,  only  of  war.  Think  that 
war  must  not  be  ever  again  in  this  our  world. 
While  women  have  voices  to  raise  to  other 
women,  we  must  make  them  understand  that 
peace  is  our  contribution  to  the  earth.  Women 
of  the  world,  what  are  we  waiting  for?" 

Then  there  came  a  woman,  young,  erect, 
burning  —  a  woman  of  Hungary. 

"Listen,"  she  said.  "A  Hungarian  girl  who 
went  to  care  for  the  Galician  refugees  tells  me 
in  a  recent  letter  the  story  of  a  poor  woman 
who  said:  'I  wanted  to  protect  my  children. 
I  ran  with  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  village. 
I  took  my  baby  in  a  shawl  on  my  back.  The 
two  others  hung  on  to  my  skirts.  I  ran  fast, 
as  fast  as  I  could.  When  I  got  to  the  station, 


206  HEART'S  KINDRED 

I  had  the  two  children  hanging  on  my  skirts, 
I  had  the  shawl  on  my  back,  but  I  had  no  baby 
and  I  don't  know  where  I  dropped  him/ ' 
The  Hungarian  woman  went  on : 
"They  don't  want  us  to  find  out  that  there 
is  no  glory,  no  big  patriotism,  no  love  for 
anything  noble,  nothing  but  butchery  and 
slaughter  and  rape.  War  means  that.  You 
know  the  story  of  the  War-brides.  You 
know  how  agents  of  the  different  churches 
compete  with  military  rulers  in  glorifying  this 
kind  of  prostitution.  But  do  you  know  of 
the  concentration  camps  with  the  compulsory 
service  of  women  ?  You  may  have  seen  the 
full  reports  of  the  atrocities  committed  on 
Belgian  women  —  but  you  didn't  get  the 
other  reports  about  the  same  kind  of  atroci 
ties  committed  by  all  armies  on  female 
human  beings  between  the  ages  of  five  and 
eighty-nine  in  all  the  countries  where  the 
game  of  war  is  being  played.  Women  of  the 
world,  what  are  we  waiting  for?"  1 

1  From  Rosika  Schwimmer,  Buda  Pesth. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  207 

And  beside  her,  as  she  finished,  stood  an 
Irish  woman,  taking  up  the  thread  of  the 
Hungarian's  woman's  cry : 

"If  we  women,  to  whom  even  a  partial 
knowledge  of  these  happenings  has  come, 
remain  silent  now,  then  we  are  blood  guilty. 
We  are  more  than  blood  guilty,  for  we  must 
be  numbered  with  those  who  will  even  dare 
the  murder  of  a  soul. 

"Let  us  not  blind  ourselves  with  talk  of 
the  glories  and  heroisms  of  war.  We  dare  not 
ignore  the  moral  and  spiritual  wreckage  that 
remains  unchronicled.  We  have  to  think  of 
men  brutalized  and  driven  to  hideous  deeds 
by  their  experiences ;  of  men  with  reason 
destroyed ;  of  men  disgraced  for  lack  of  the 
cold  courage  that  can  face  such  horrors;  of 
men  with  a  slain  faith  in  good,  their  outlook  on 
life  eternally  embittered.  What  of  the  women 
for  whom  the  French  government  has  had  to 
devise  legislation  to  deter  them  from  infanti 
cide?  What  of  the  children  begotten  under 
such  conditions  ?  Women  of  the  world,  where 


208  HEART'S  KINDRED 

is  your  voice,  that  should  be  sowing  the  seeds 
of  peace?"  1 

Almost  as  her  own  voice,  went  on  the 
voice  of  another  woman,  the  brief  poignant 
entreaty  of  an  English  woman : 

"We  ask  nothing  strange!  Only  that 
which  Christianity,  civilization  and  mother 
hood  dictate. 

"The  well-being  of  children  touches  all. 
On  that  common  ground  the  opposing  nations 
could  meet  and  crown  their  courage  by  laying 
aside  their  arms  at  the  call  of  a  higher  human- 
ity. 

"Can  mother  hearts  turn  from  this  cry? 
Will  not  womanhood  join  in  resolve,  though 
in  divers  tongues,  yet  with  but  one  Voice  — 
the  Voice  of  pure  human  love  and  pity.  .  .  ."2 

The  Inger  stood  against  the  wall,  and 
listened.  A  place  had  opened  into  which  he 
had  never  looked,  whose  existence  he  had 
never  guessed.  He  stood  frowning,  staring  — 

1  From  Louie  Bennet,  Dublin. 

2  From  Emily  Hobhouse,  London. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  209 

at  first  trying  to  understand,  then  under 
standing  and  passionately  doubting.  The 
appeals  of  the  first  speakers  did  not  touch 
him.  What  did  women  know  of  these  things  ? 

Then  the  Polish  woman  had  spoken.  Then 
the  Servian  woman.  Then  the  Belgium 
woman.  These  undeniably  knew  what  they 
were  talking  about !  But  not  until  that 
woman  of  Hungary  had  stood  there,  did  the 
thought  come  which  had  pierced  him :  What 
if  all  that  she  said  was  true  —  and  was  true 
of  Lory  ?  What  if  it  had  been  her  child 
whom  Lory  had  lost  from  her  shawl  as  she 
ran.  .  .  . 

He  breathed  hard,  and  looked  about  him. 
They  were  all,  men  and  women  alike,  sitting  as 
tense  as  he.  And  he  saw  that  all  these  believed. 
No  one,  no  one  could  doubt  these  women. 

"This  is  what  we  have  to  do  — "  it]  was 
another  German  woman  who  was  speaking 
and  the  interpreter  was  giving  her  words. 
"This  is  what  we  have  to  do :  our  cry  must 
ring  forth  irresistibly  from  millions  of  voices : 


210  HEART'S  KINDRED 

'Enough  of  slaughter,  enough  of  devastation. 
Peace,  lasting  peace !  Make  room  for  peace 
ful  work.  Leave  the  way  free  for  the  fra 
ternity  of  the  peoples  and  for  their  cooper 
ation  in  bringing  to  flower  the  culture  of 
international  civilization ! ' 

"If  men  kill,  it  is  for  women  to  fight  for 
the  preservation  of  life.  If  men  are  silent, 
it  is  our  duty  to  raise  our  voices  on  behalf  of 
our  ideals."  1 

The  Inger  stood  where  the  wall  curved,  so 
he  was  looking  at  the  rows  of  faces  from  near 
the  front  of  the  room.  And  he  was  looking 
on  a  sign,  a  hint  no  greater  in  emphasis  than 
a  shadow,  of  what  war  is  to  women.  He 
understood  it,  momentarily  he  even  felt  it. 
And  for  a  flash  he  saw  them  all  as  he  had  seen 
the  women  in  the  Chicago  employment  agency 
—  as  if  he  were  those  women  and  could 
suffer  what  they  suffered. 

He  remembered  Lory,  and  her  face  lifted 
to  his  in  the  Chicago  meeting. 

1  From  Clara  Zetkin,  Stuttgart. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  211 

"They're  voting  to  kill  folks,"  she  had  said. 
"Oh,  my  God." 

This  was  what  she  had  meant.  She  had 
understood,  and  he  had  not  understood. 
How  had  she  understood  ?  He  thought  about 
her.  Out  of  Inch,  out  of  scenes  of  killing, 
and  of  misery  put  upon  life,  Jem  Moor's  girl 
had  come,  and  she  knew  how  to  feel  the  way 
these  women  felt.  All  that  he  had  been  feel 
ing  for  her  became  something  which  beat  upon 
his  heart  like  light. 

A  note  had  been  sent  to  the  chairman,  and 
with  her  announcement,  a  movement  of 
wonder  went  over  the  audience,  and  this 
wonder  was  touched  with  dread.  A  famous 
army  man  was  present,  and  he  would  speak. 

He  came  forward  firmly,  and  it  was  by  the 
merest  chance  that  he  stood  there  before 
them  erect,  strong,  compact,  alive,  for  he 
had  seen  service.  The  Inger  looked  at  him, 
quickening.  Immediately,  at  the  sight  of 
his  uniform,  the  Inger  had  felt  a  restoration 
of  confidence  in  what  had  always  been. 


HEART'S  KINDRED 

Then  the  man  faced  them,  and  he  spoke  as 
quietly  as  the  women  themselves : 

"I  ask  only  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "that  I 
have  been  for  twenty -five  years  in  the  service 
—  a  part  of  the  time  in  active  service.  I  have 
believed  in  armies  and  in  armament.  I  still 
believe  them  to  have  been  an  obvious  neces 
sity  —  while  our  world  was  being  whipped 
into  shape.  Now  I  am  in  the  last  years  of 
my  service  —  I  do  not  take  very  readily  to 
new  ideas  —  even  when  I  know  that  these 
point  to  the  next  step  on  the  way.  I  tell 
you  frankly,  that  if  there  were  a  call  to  arms, 
I  should  be  there  in  my  old  place  —  I  should 
serve  as  I  have  always  served,  I  should  kill 
whom  they  told  me  to  kill,  as  long  as  they 
would  have  me  there.  But — "  he  hesitated, 
and  lifted  his  face,  and  in  it  was  a  light  that 
has  shone  on  a  face  in  no  battlefield,  "if  that 
time  comes,  I  shall  thank  God  for  every 
woman  who  protests  against  it,  as  you  here 
are  protesting.  And,  if  that  time  comes, 
from  my  soul  I  shall  honor  the  men  who  will 


HEART'S  KINDRED  213 

have  the  courage  to  be  shot,  rather  than  to 
go  out  to  shoot  their  fellows.  These  men 
will  not  be  lacking :  I  have  read  the  signs  and 
I  have  heard  men  talk.  Your  new  way  of 
warfare  is  not  in  vain.  You  will  win.  You 
are  the  voice  of  To-morrow.  I  have  wanted 
you  to  know  that  I  feel  this  —  and  that  to 
you  and  to  your  effort  I  say  God  bless  you, 
and  prosper  what  you  do." 

For  the  first  time  that  night  the  silence  of 
the  audience  was  broken.  A  thunder  of 
hands  and  voices  spoke  to  him.  And,  as  he 
turned  to  leave  the  platform,  they  did  that  by 
which  they  paid  the  highest  honor  that  they 
knew  —  and  rose  and  remained  standing  until 
he  had  reached  his  seat. 

"Jove,"  said  the  man  near  the  Inger. 
"Old  Battle-axe !  Now  watch  the  men  catch 
up.  It  only  needed  one  full-blooded  man  to 
say  it.  .  .  ." 

"Rot,"  said  the  man  beyond  him.  "No 
matter  what  they  say,  you  know  and  I  know 
that  trade  will  never  get  out  of  the  way  of 


214  HEART'S  KINDRED 

peace.     There'll  be  no  peace  while  we  have 
trade  —  and    that'll    be    for    some    time    to 


come !" 


At  this  the  first  man  laughed. 

"Trade,"  he  said,  "was  a  thought  before 
it  was  trade.  Peace  is  a  thought  —  yet." 

On  the  stage  some  one  was  quoting  Wash 
ington:  "My  first  wish  is  —  to  see  the  whole 
world  in  peace  and  the  inhabitants  of  it  as 
one  band  of  brothers,  striving  who  should 
contribute  most  to  the  happiness  of  mankind." 

And  Victor  Hugo:  "A  day  will  come 
when  a  cannon  ball  will  be  exhibited  in 
public  museums,  just  as  an  instrument  of 
torture  is  now ;  and  people  will  be  amazed 
that  such  a  thing  could  ever  have  been." 

Methodically,  and  as  if  it  had  become  their 
business,  the  women  fell  to  discussing  what 
they  must  do.  In  each  country  more  groups 
must  be  organized  —  for  School,  Home, 
States,  Municipalities  —  "for  the  lifting  of 
the  programme  of  pacifism  into  the  realm  of 
serious  commercial  and  educational  and  home 


HEART'S  KINDRED  215 

and  political  consideration."  The  psychology 
of  war  must  give  place  to  the  psychology  of 
peace. 

From  unfair  trade  legislation  by  one  country 
against  another,  down  to  the  sale  of  toy 
weapons  and  soldiers;  and  from  competing 
expenditures  for  national  defence  down  to 
military  drill  in  schools  and  colleges,  the 
temptations  to  militarism  must  pass  from 
the  earth. 

"We  know,"  an  American  woman  said, 
"that  war  depends  on  economic  conditions 
beyond  our  control.  But  we  know,  too,  that 
there  is  something  potent  to  change  even 
these,  and  it  is  this  potency  which  we  dream 
to  liberate." 

And,  beside  the  Inger,  the  man  said  again : 

"Peace  is  only  a  thought,  —  yet.  But 
even  economic  conditions  were  only  thought, 
once !" 

Gradually  in  the  voice  of  one  and  another, 
the  word  took  shape  —  so  simply  that  the 
enormity  of  the  import  was  pathetically 


216  HEART'S  KINDRED 

lacking:  That  representatives  of  the  women 
of  the  world,  united  in  a  demand  for  inter 
national  righteousness,  shall  petition  the 
men  and  women  of  the  world  to  turn  to 
the  new  knowledge  that  war  is  an  out 
worn  way  to  settle  difficulties ;  that  with 
one  voice  we  shall  all  refuse  any  longer 
to  let  the  traditions  of  a  past  age  be 
put  upon  us;  that  the  old  phrases  and 
catch-words  shall  not  stand  for  one  moment 
before  the  naked  question  of  the  race: 
"  Is  this  the  best  that  life  can  do  with 
life  ?  "  That  we  shall  learn  from  one  another 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  preparing 
against  war,  but  that  to  prepare  for  war 
breeds  war — twin-born  are  the  slayer  and 
the  slain ;  that  we  shall  teach  one  another 
that  "  Thou  shalt  not  kill "  is  not  only  moral 
law,  but  sound  economic  policy,  for  always 
these  two  are  one.  And  that  from  the 
constructive  plans  devised  in  anguish  and 
in  hope  by  men  and  women  of  to-day, 
there  be  selected  and  inaugurated  a  world 


HEART'S  KINDRED  217 

programme  for  permanent  peace  without 
armistice  and  a  council  of  the  nations  looking 
toward  the  federation  of  the  world. 

"We  have  talked  long  enough  of  treaties 
and  of  arbitration,"  they  said.  "  Let  us  have 
done  with  such  play.  Let  us  speak  the  phrase 
quite  simply  :  The  federation  of  the  world." 

And  the  message  concluded  : 

"For  we,  the  women  of  the  world,  have 
banded  ourselves  together  to  demand  that 
war  be  abolished." 

Last,  he  remembered  a  Voice.  Afterward, 
he  could  not  have  told  what  woman  spoke,  or 
of  what  nation  they  said  that  she  had  come. 
But  what  she  said  was  like  the  weaving  of 
what  the  others  had  spun. 

"Remember,"  said  her  Voice,  "that  all  this 
is  nothing.  It  is  only  the  body,  made  for  the 
spirit.  And  the  spirit  is  that  new  dominant 
mind  which  shall  be  born  in  the  world  —  the 
mind  of  love. 

"  You  II  not  get  this  by  going  to  governments. 
You'll  not  get  this  by  the  meeting  of  groups  of 


218  HEART'S  KINDRED 

representative  people.  You'll  not  get  this  by 
International  Police.  These  things  must  be  — 
will  be,  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  they  will 
not  be  the  mind  of  love. 

66  Something  will  come  into  the  world  —  and 
it  will  know  nothing  of  arbitration,  it  will 
know  nothing  of  armistice,  it  will  know  nothing 
of  treaties;  nor  will  it  know  anything  of  those 
other  ways  of  secret  warfare  by  which  great  nations 
seem  to  keep  clean  hands :  the  ways  of  '  high ' 
finance  through  '  peaceful  penetration.9 

"Something  will  come  into  the  world,  and  it 
will  know  nothing  of  nations. 

"  The  little  loyalties  will  go.  National  pride, 
national  'honor,9  patriotism  —  all  the  little 
scaffolds  will  fall  away.  And  within  will  be 
the  light  that  we  lack. 

"It  is  the  mind  of  love.  I  am  not  afraid  to 
say  that  beside  it,  governments  are  nothing. 
It  is  the  mind  of  love.  It  may  be  in  the  simplest 
cottage  of  a  peasant  who  goes  to  the  war  for  a 
false  ideal.  But  of  this  as  yet  the  nations  do 
not  know. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  219 

"  What  is  it  that  we  must  know  ? 

"  That  the  nations  are  nothing  —  the  people 
are  everything.  That  the  people  are  bound 
together  by  ties  which  the  nations  must  cease 
to  break.  That  the  people  are  heart's  kindred., 
met  here  together  for  their  world-work,  and  that 
the  nations  must  cease  to  interrupt" 

Even  then  the  Cabinet  meeting  was  already 
concluded,  and  the  newsboys  were  on  the 
streets  with  the  Extras ;  and  on  the  bulletin 
boards  of  the  world  the  word  was  being 
flashed : 

"NO  ACTION  TO  BE  TAKEN 
BY  U.  S." 

And  in  the  newspapers  was  the  text  of  that 
letter,  simple,  human,  of  almost  religious  im 
port,  which  was  to  make  the  United  States, 
years  hence,  stand  out  as  the  first  great  head 
land  upon  new  shores. 

The  people  were  coming  out  at  the  doors 
of  the  Capitol.  Among  them  were  the  women 


220  HEART'S  KINDRED 

who  had  spoken  —  the  Polish  woman,  the 
Servian  peasant,  the  lady  of  Louvain.  The 
other  women  in  the  crowd  put  out  their 
hands  and  took  the  hands  of  these  women. 
Those  stretching,  pressing  hands  of  silent 
women  marked  a  giant  fellowship  which 
disregarded  oceans,  strange  tongues,  countless 
varying  experiences,  and  took  account  of  only 
one  thing. 

The  Inger  was  looking  up  at  the  white 
dome  against  the  black  sky,  and  about  him 
at  the  march  of  the  people.  Through  his 
thought  ran  the  flood  of  this  that  he  had 
heard.  In  his  absorption  he  lurched  heavily 
against  a  man  who  was  trying  to  pass  him  and 
who  jostled  him.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  the  Inger  felt  no  surge  of  anger  at  such 
a  happening.  He  looked  in  the  man's  face. 

"Gosh,"  the  Inger  said.  "That  was  too 
alfiredbad!" 

The  man  smiled  and  nodded.  Momen 
tarily,  the  Inger  felt  on  his  arm  the  touch  of 
the  man's  hand. 


HEART'S  KINDRED 

"All  right,  brother,"  the  man  said,  and 
was  gone. 

The  Inger  felt  a  sudden  lightness  of  heart. 
And  about  him  the  people  went  along  so 
quietly.  Abruptly  the  tumult  of  his  think 
ing  gave  way  to  something  nearer  than  these 
things.  He  looked  in  their  faces.  None  of 
them  knew  that  his  father  had  died!  It 
occurred  to  him  now  that  there  was  hardly 
one  of  them  who,  on  being  told,  would  not 
say  something  to  him  —  perhaps  even  shake 
his  hand.  He  thought  that  many  of  these 
people  must  have  seen  their  fathers  die.  He 
wondered  which  ones  these  would  be,  and 
he  wished  that  he  knew  which  ones  they 
were.  Something  in  him  went  along  with 
the  people,  because  they  must  have  had 
fathers  who  had  died.  He  looked  at  them 
in  a  new  way.  Their  fathers  must  have 
died.  .  .  . 

Oh,  if  only,  he  thought,  Lory  might  have 
been  there  to-night  with  those  women  who 
felt  as  she  felt.  .  .  . 


HEART'S  KINDRED 

He  was  aware  of  a  hand  on  his  arm.  He 
turned,  feeling  an  obscure  pleasure  that  per 
haps  some  one  had  something  to  say  to  him. 
It  was  Lory,  alone. 


X 

HER  face  in  the  darkness,  and  about  them 
the  green  gloom  of  the  Square,  were  all 
that  he  knew  of  the  time.  Not  far  from 
them,  like  murals  on  the  night,  went  the 
people,  that  little  lighted  stream  of  people, 
down  the  white  steps  and  along  the  gray 
drives. 

At  first  he  could  say  nothing  to  her0  He 
seized  at  her  hand  as  he  had  seized  upon  it  that 
night  in  Chicago,  but  then  he  remembered  and 
let  her  hand  fall ;  and  at  last  he  blurted  out  a 
consuming  question : 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Who?"  Lory  asked  surprisingly,  and 
understood,  and  still  more  surprisingly  re 
plied  : 

"Bunchy!     He's  gone  to  New  York." 

This  city's  name  the  Inger  repeated  stu- 

223 


224  HEART'S  KINDRED 

pidly,  and  as  if  it  made  no  answer  to  any 
thing. 

"Just  for  a  few  days,"  she  explained, 
"before  he  goes  home." 

"Home!" 

To  tell  the  truth  she  seemed  not  to  be 
thinking  very  much  about  Bunchy. 

"I  told  him  I'd  never  marry  him  — 
not  in  fifty  hundred  years.  And  he  went 
home." 

He  considered  this  incredulously. 

"Couldn't  you  tell  him  that  without 
comin'  clear  to  Washington  to  do  it?"  he 
demanded. 

"No,"  she  said.  "There  was  the  money. 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you'd  give  Dad  that 
money?" 

He  tried  to  answer  her,  but  all  the  while 
this  miracle  was  taking  him  to  itself  :  Bunchy 
had  gone. 

"I  guess  because  it  sounded  like  a  square 
deal,  when  I  only  done  it  to  devil  Bunchy 
some/'  he  told  her. 


HEART'S  KINDRED  225 

"Is  that  all  you  done  it  for?" 

He  looked  at  her  swiftly.  Was  that  all 
that  he  had  done  it  for? 

"Is  it?"  she  said. 

"I  donno,"  he  answered  truthfully.  "It 
was  some  of  it." 

"I  wish,"  she  said,  "I  wish't  I  knew." 

With  that  he  moved  a  little  toward  her, 
and  tried  to  see  her  face. 

"Why?  "he  asked. 

She  turned  away  and  said  nothing.  And 
when  she  did  that,  he  caught  his  breath  and 
stooped  to  her. 

"You  tell  me  why  you  wish't  you  knew," 
he  bade  her. 

"Oh  well,"  she  said  —  and  she  was  breath 
less  too  —  "if  you  done  it  to  help  me  —  get 
away  —  then  I  shouldn't  feel  so  bad  about 
goin'  to  the  hut." 

"About  comin'  to  me?" 

"About  makin'  you  do  all  this  for  me!" 
she  cried.     "I'm  sick  over  it.     I  don't  know 
how  to  tell  you.  .  .  ." 
Q 


226  HEART'S  KINDRED 

He  wondered  if  it  was  possible  that  she  did 
not  understand. 

"I  done  the  only  thing  I  could  think 
to  do,"  she  said.  "There  wasn't  anybody 
else.  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  get  the  idea,"  he  demanded, 
"that  I'm  ever  going  to  forget  how  you  said 
that  to  me  that  first  night  ?  I  was  drunk  — 
but  I  knew  when  you  said  that.  And  then — " 

"Don't,"  she  said. 

"How  can  I  help  it?"  he  asked  bitterly. 
"I  made  fool  enough  of  myself  that  night  — " 

"Don't"  she  begged. 

" — so's  you  never  can  forget  it,"  he 
finished.  "And  so's  I  never  can.  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  that  — " 

"What  then?"  she  asked. 

And  now  he  did  not  answer,  but  looked 
away  from  her,  and  so  it  was  she  who  made 
him  tell. 

"What  then?"  she  said  again. 

"Would  you  have  liked  me  then,"  he  burst 
out,  "before  that  night?" 


HEART'S  KINDRED  227 

She  said  —  and  nothing  could  have  swept 
him  like  the  simplicity  and  honesty  of  this  : 

"But  you  never  come  down  to  town  once 
after  that  morning  on  the  horse." 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  he  cried. 

"I  watched,"  she  answered,  quietly. 

And  yet  this,  he  knew,  was  before  that 
night  on  the  trail.  This  was  still  in  the 
confidence  of  her  supreme  confession:  "I 
didn't  know  no  woman  I  could  tell  —  nor  no 
other  decent  man."  And  she  had  watched 
for  him.  .  .  . 

But,  after  all,  she  was  telling  him  so  now  I 
And  here,  to-night,  when  she  no  longer  had 
need  of  him,  her  comradeship  was  unchanged. 
And  there  had  been  those  hours  on  the  train 
from  Chicago.  .  .  . 

"You  watched!"  he  repeated.  "Oh  look 
here!  Would  you  watch — now?" 

To  her  voice  came  that  tremor  that  he 
remembered,  which  seemed  to  be  in  the  very 
words  themselves. 

"I  watched  all  day  to-day,"  she  said. 


228  HEART'S  KINDRED 

Even  then  he  did  not  touch  her.  It  was 
as  if  there  were  some  gulf  which  she  must 
be  the  one  to  cross. 

"Oh  Lory,  Lory !"  he  cried. 

And  she  understood,  and  it  was  she  who 
stretched  out  her  hands  to  him. 

In  their  broken  talk,  he  told  her  of  his 
father,  and  she  clung  to  him  with  a  cry  that 
she  had  not  been  with  him. 

"I  couldn't  send  for  you,"  she  said.  "I 
thought  —  maybe  you  was  glad  Bunchy  come. 
I  thought  maybe  you  was  glad  I  was  off  your 
hands—" 

"My  hands,"  he  said,  "just  was  huntin' 
for  your  hands." 

"Then  that  ice-cream  place's  wife,"  she 
said,  "told  me  about  to-night  —  and  some 
body  told  Aunt  'Cretia.  And  we  come  here 
to  the  meeting  —  but  when  I  saw  you,  I  run 
and  lost  'em  — " 

"I  wanted  you  when  I  was  in  that  meet 
ing,"  he  told  her,  "more'n  any  other  time, 
most.  I  knew  you  knew  what  they  meant." 


HEART'S  KINDRED 

She  said  the  thing  which  in  the  tense 
feeling  of  that  hour,  had  remained  for  her 
paramount. 

"That  woman,"  she  cried,  "with  her  baby 
in  her  shawl !  Think  —  when  she  knew  it 
was  gone  —  and  she  couldn't  go  back.  .  .  ." 

"I  thought  —  what  if  it  had  been  you,"  he 
told  her. 

She  was  in  his  arms,  close  in  the  dusk  of  a 
great  cedar.  "Any  woman  —  any  woman  !" 
she  said,  and  he  felt  her  sobbing. 

He  turned  and  looked  away  at  the  people. 
Not  far  from  them,  like  murals  on  the  night, 
went  the  people,  that  little  lighted  stream  of 
people,  down  the  white  steps  and  along  the 
gray  drives.  He  looked  at  the  women.  That 
about  the  baby  in  the  shawl  might  have 
happened  to  any  one  of  them,  if  war  were 
here.  ...  It  was  terrible  to  think  that  this 
might  happen  to  any  one  of  these  women. 
He  felt  as  if  he  knew  them.  And  then  too, 
there  must  be  some  of  them  whose  fathers 
had  died.  .  .  . 


230  HEART'S  KINDRED 

He  kept  looking  at  the  people,  and  in  his 
arms  was  Lory,  sobbing  for  that  woman  who 
had  lost  her  child  from  her  shawl;  and 
over  there  across  the  water  were  thousands 
whose  children  were  gone,  whose  fathers  had 
died.  .  .  . 

Here  they  all  seemed  so  kindly,  and  they 
were  going  home  ...  to  homes  such  as  he 
and  Lory  were  going  to  have.  Just  the 
same  —  just  the  same.  .  .  . 

And  as  he  looked  at  the  people,  the  thou 
sands,  going  to  their  homes,  Love  that  had 
come  A  to  dwell  in  him,  touched  him  on  the 
eyes.  He  saw  them  loving,  as  he  and  Lory 
loved.  He  saw  them  grieving,  as  that  woman 
had  grieved  for  her  child.  He  saw  them  lonely 
for  their  dead,  as  he  was  lonely  for  his  dead. 
None  of  them  could  deceive  him.  He  knew 
them,  now.  They  were  like  Lory  and  like  him. 

Out  of  a  heart  suddenly  full  he  spoke  the 
utmost  that  he  could  : 

"What  a  rotten  shame,"  he  said,  "it'd  be 
to  kill  any  of  them !" 


HEART'S  KINDRED  231 

She  looked  up,  and  saw  where  he  was 
looking,  and  her  heart  leaped  with  her  under 
standing  of  him. 

He  was  trying  to  think  it  out. 

"But  they  can't  seem  to  stop  to  think  of 
things  like  that,"  he  said;  "not  when  big 
things  come  up." 

'"Big  things!"  she  cried.  "What's  big 
things?" 

"Well  —  rights  —  and  land  —  and  sea 
ports,"  said  he. 

She  laughed,  and  caught  up  an  end  of  her 
blue  knitted  shawl  and  covered  her  face,  and 
dropped  the  shawl  with  almost  a  sob. 

"Rights  —  and  land  —  and  sea-ports  !"  she 
said  over. 

;  The  three  words  hung  in  air,  and  echoed. 
And  abruptly  there  came  upon  him  a  dozen 
things  that  he  had  heard  that  night:  "We 
had  just  three  little  streets,  but  they  took 
those.  ..."  "There  is  only  one  hell  worse 
than  we  have  been  through.  .  .  ."  "Say, 
if  you  like,  that  Belgium  was  only  a  part  of 


232  HEART'S  KINDRED 

what  happens  in  war  ..."  "We  have  to 
think  of  men  brutalized  and  driven  to  hideous 
deeds  ..."  "Enough  of  slaughter.  Enough 
of  devastation.  Peace  —  lasting  peace!" 
And  then  again  the  words  of  the  Hungarian 
woman:  "I  had  the  shawl  on  my  back,  but 
I  had  no  baby  and  I  don't  know  where  I 
dropped  him." 

"Think  of  millions  of  men  doing  like  Dad 
and  that  sheriff,"  the  girl  said  suddenly. 
"I  saw  'em  there  on  the  woodshed  floor, — 
stark,  starin',  ravin'  mad." 

Sharp  on  the  dark  before  him  was  struck 
the  image  of  that  old  madman  in  the  kitchen. 
There  was  a  beast  in  him.  The  Inger  had 
felt  the  beast  in  himself  answer.  He  had 
felt  the  shame  of  a  man  who  is  a  beast  to 
another  man.  What  if  it  were  the  same  kind 
of  shame  for  the  nations  ? 

Suddenly,  in  his  arms,  Lory  was  pouring 
out  all  that  she  had  longed  to  say  to  him. 

"Back  there  in  Inch,"  she  cried,  "I  knew 
there  was  some  other  way.  I  had  to  know ! 


HEART'S  KINDRED  233 

It  didn't  seem  as  if  everybody  could  be  like 
Dad  and  Bunchy.  Then  I  saw  you  —  and 
you  seemed  like  you  could  be  some  other 
way.  And  you  are  —  and  see  the  folks 
there.  There  is  some  other  way  to  be  besides 
killin'!" 

The  lights  in  the  dome  went  out,  and  that 
high  white  presence  dropped  back  against 
the  sky.  Still  the  people  were  going  by, 
their  feet  treading  the  gravel ;  and  now  there 
was  a  man's  voice,  now  a  woman's  voice,  now 
the  sleepy  treble  of  a  child.  And  they  were 
all  in  some  exquisite  faith  of  destination. 
j|"I  guess  there  must  be  some  other  way," 
the  Inger  said. 

[^  To  the  man  and  the  woman  in  each  other's 
arms,  there  came  no  glimpse  of  the  future, 
great  with  its  people,  "  striving  who  should 
contribute  most  to  the  happiness  of  man 
kind."  But  of  the  man's  love  was  born  his 
dim  knowledge  —  which  had  long  been  the 
woman's  knowledge  —  that  the  people  are 
bound  together  by  ties  which  the  nations 


234  HEART'S  KINDRED 

must  cease  to  break.  That  the  people  are 
heart's  kindred,  met  here  for  their  world- 
work,  which  the  nations  must  cease  to  inter 
rupt. 

Yet  all  that  he  could  say  of  this  was  some 
thing  which  every  soldier  knows  —  though 
armies  never  know : 

"If  that  woman  had  been  you  —  and  the 
baby  in  the  shawl  had  been  ours  — " 

"Anybody's!"  she  insisted.  "Anybody's 
baby!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Inger  then.  "Anybody's 
baby." 


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Neighborhood  Stories 

BY  ZONA  GALE 

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In  "  Neighborhood  Stories"  Miss  Gale  has  a  book  after 
her  own  heart,  a  book  which,  with  its  intimate  stories  of 
real  folks,  is  not  unlike  "  Friendship  Village."  Miss  Gale 
has  humor;  she  has  lightness  of  touch;  she  has,  above 
all,  a  keen  appreciation  of  human  nature.  These  qualities 
are  reflected  in  the  volume. 

"  It  awakens  many  a  memory,  and  proves  to  be  quite  as 
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of  "  Friendship  Village,"  upon  which  Miss  Gale's  reputa 
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"  Miss  Gale  has  succeeded  admirably  in  giving  us  a  new 
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sure  of  a  welcome."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  The  most  striking  fact  about  the  eleven  stories  in  this 
volume  is  the  extraordinary  amount  of  human  nature 
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Christmas 

BY  ZONA    GALE 

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Illustrated  in  colors  by  LEON  SOLON. 

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A  town  in  the  Middle  West,  pinched  with  poverty,  decides 
that  it  will  have  no  Christmas,  as  no  one  can  afford  to  buy  gifts. 
They  perhaps  foolishly  reckon  that  the  heart-burnings  and  the 
disappointments  of  the  children  will  be  obviated  by  passing  the 
holiday  season  over  with  no  observance.  How  this  was  found 
to  be  simply  and  wholly  impossible,  how  the  Christmas  joys  and 
Christmas  spirit  crept  into  the  little  town  and  into  the  hearts  of 
its  most  positive  objectors,  and  how  Christmas  cannot  be  arbi 
trated  about,  make  up  the  basis  of  a  more  than  ordinarily 
appealing  novel.  Incidentally  it  is  a  little  boy  who  really  makes 
possible  a  delightful  outcome.  A  thread  of  romance  runs  through 
it  all  with  something  of  the  meaning  of  Christmas  for  the  indi 
vidual  human  being  and  for  the  race. 

u  A  fine  story  of  Yuletide  impulses  in  Miss  Gale's  best  style." 
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"  No  living  writer  more  thoroughly  understands  the  true  spirit 
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" '  Christmas '  is  that  rare  thing,  a  Yuletide  tale,  with  a  touch 
of  originality  about  it."  —  N.  Y.  Press. 

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When  I  Was  a  Little  Girl 

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u  So  exquisite  that  we  want  our  older  readers  to  have  a  share  in  it 
as  well  as  those  younger  ones  for  whom  it's  apparently  designed. 
It's  the  only  quite  recent  thing  within  hailing  distance  of  *  Peter 
Pan'  and  'The  Blue  Bird'  — a  real  fairy  tale  of  childhood.  The 
introduction  is  such  a  gem  that  one  could  love  it  for  that  alone. 
One  of  the  year's  most  charming  gift  books  —  beautifully  illustrated." 

—  Continent. 

"  Full  of  delightful  fantasy  and  keen  observation.  ...  In  many 
ways  it  is  better  than  Loti's  remembrances  of  his  childhood,  because 
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"  That  Miss  Gale  has  told  her  story  in  exquisite  fashion  need  not 
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ing.  Text,  pictures,  and  format  combine  to  make  'When  I  Was  a 
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would  fain  find  it  again."  —  N.  Y.  Times. 

"  The  book  is  an  unusual  addition  to  the  very  limited  number  of 
good  reminiscences  of  childhood." —  The  Outlook. 

"A  more  charming  story  of  child-life  can  hardly  be  imagined." 

—  Boston  Times. 


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Mothers  to  Men 

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The  author  is  singularly  successful  in  detaching  herself  from  all  the 
wear  and  tear  of  modern  life  and  has  produced  a  book  filled  with 
sweetness,  beautiful  in  ideas,  charming  in  characterizations,  highly  con 
templative,  and  evidencing  a  philosophy  of  life  all  her  own. 

"  One  of  the  most  widely  read  of  our  writers  of  short  fiction."  — 
The  Bookman. 

Friendship  Village 

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"  As  charming  as  an  April  day,  all  showers  and  sunshine,  and  some 
times  both  together,  so  that  the  delighted  reader  hardly  knows  whether 
laughter  or  tears  are  fittest."  —  The  New  York  Times. 

The  Loves  of  Pelleas  and  Etarre 

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"It  contains  the  sort  of  message  that  seems  to  set  the  world  right 
for  even  the  most  depressed,  and  can  be  depended  upon  to  sweeten 
every  moment  spent  over  it."  —  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

Friendship  Village  Love  Stories 

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Miss  Gale's  pleasant  and  highly  individual  outlook  upon  life  has 
never  been  revealed  to  better  advantage  than  in  these  charming  stories 
of  the  heart  affairs  of  the  young  people  of  Friendship  Village. 


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The  Research  Magnificent 

BY  H.  G.  WELLS 

Author  of  "  The  Wife  of  Sir  Isaac  Harman,"  etc." 

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A  book  of  real  distinction  is  this  novel  from  the  pen  of  an  author  whose  popularity 
in  America  is  no  less  than  in  his  native  England,  where  he  is  put  in  the  front  ranks 
of  present-day  writers.  The  Research  Magnificent  is  pronounced  by  those  critics 
who  have  read  it  to  be  the  best  work  that  Mr.  Wells  has  done,  realizing  fully  the 
promises  of  greatness  which  not  a  few  have  found  in  its  immediate  predecessors. 
The  author's  theme  —  the  research  magnificent  —  is  the  story  of  one  man's  search 
for  the  kingly  life.  A  subject  such  as  this  is  one  peculiarly  suited  to  Mr.  Wells's 
literary  genius,  and  he  has  handled  it  with  the  skill,  the  feeling,  the  vision,  which 
it  requires. 


The  Star  Rover 


BY  JACK  LONDON 

Author  of  "  The  Call  of  the  Wild,"  "  The  Sea  Wolf,"  "  The  Mutiny  of 
the  Elsinore,"  etc.    With  frontispiece  in  colors  by  Jay  Hambidge. 

Cloth,  I2tno 

Daring  in  its  theme  and  vivid  in  execution,  this  is  one  of  the  most  original  and 
gripping  stories  Mr.  London  has  ever  written.  The  fundamental  idea  upon  which 
the  plot  rests  —  the  supremacy  of  mind  over  body  —  has  served  to  inspire  writers 
before,  but  rarely,  if  indeed  ever,  has  it  been  employed  as  strikingly  or  with  as 
much  success  as  in  this  book.  With  a  wealth  of  coloring  and  detail  the  author  tells 
of  what  came  of  an  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  hero  to  free  his  spirit  from  his  body, 
of  the  wonderful  adventures  this  "  star  rover"  had,  adventures  covering  long  lapses 
of  years  and  introducing  strange  people  in  stranger  lands.  It  is  a  work  that  will 
make  as  lasting  an  impression  upon  the  reader  as  did  The  Sea  Wolf  and  The 
Call  of  the  Wild. 


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Old  Delabole 

BY  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

Author  of  "  Brunei's  Tower,"  etc. 


Cloth,  zamo 


A  critic  in  reviewing  BrunrFs  Tower  remarked  that  it  would  seem  that  Eden 
Phillpotts  was  now  doing  the  best  work  of  his  career.  There  was  sufficient  argument 
for  this  contention  in  the  novel  then  under  consideration  and  further  demonstration  of 
its  truth  is  found  in  Old  Delabole,  which,  because  of  its  cheerful  and  wise  philosophy 
and  its  splendid  feeling  for  nature  and  man's  relation  to  it,  will  perhaps  ultimately 
take  its  place  as  its  author's  best.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Cornwall.  Delabole  is  a 
slate  mining  town  and  the  tale  which  Mr.  Phillpotts  tells  against  it  as  a  background, 
one  in  which  a  matter  of  honor  or  of  conscience  is  the  pivot,  is  dramatic  in  situation 
and  doubly  interesting  because  of  the  moral  problem  which  it  presents.  Mr. 
Phillpotts's  artistry  and  keen  perception  of  those  motives  which  actuate  conduct 
have  never  been  better  exhibited. 


God's  Puppets 

BY  WILLIAM  ALLEN  WHITE 

Author  of  "  A  Certain  Rich  Man." 


Cloth,  i2mo 


Here  are  brought  together  a  number  of  the  more  notable  short  stories  by 
one  whose  reputation  in  this  field  is  as  great  as  in  the  novel  form  —  for  has  Mr. 
White  not  delighted  thousands  of  readers  with  The  Court  of  Boyville  and  lit  Our 
Town,  short  intimate  studies  of  life  at  first  hand  which,  while  quite  different 
from  the  material  in  the  new  volume,  nevertheless  show  mastery  of  the  art?  Mr. 
White  is  a  slow  and  careful  writer,  a  fact  to  which  the  long  intervals  between  his  books 
bear  witness,  but  each  work  has  proved  itself  worth  waiting  for,  and  God's  Puppets 
will  be  found  no  exception.  It  gives  us  of  the  best  of  his  creative  genius. 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

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16Mar'61Af 


28  196? 


DEC  1 9  1989 


AU»' 


LD  21A-50m-12,'60 
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